The Butcher of Smithfield (42 page)

‘Pity,’ said Chaloner unsympathetically.

It was a gloomy crowd that braved the storm and circled the gaping pit in the graveyard for Maylord’s funeral. Greeting came
to stand next to Chaloner, both blinking rain from their eyes.

‘I am soaked through,’ grumbled Greeting when the dismal ceremony was over. ‘Come to the Rhenish Wine House with me. I shall
buy some cheap wine and we can drink to Maylord. You owe me for saving you last night, and I would not mind picking your brains
about Smegergill in return. Williamson summoned me this morning, and was livid when I told him I had no luck in tracking down
the killer. He ordered me to try again, so I need all the help I can get.’

It was not the most enticing of offers, but Chaloner accepted, thinking it would be a good opportunity to pass Smegergill’s
ring to its rightful owner, and thus be rid of the responsibility. They entered the fuggy warmth of the hostelry, clothes
dripping. Landlord Genew was drying his bald pate with a cloth, and informed them that he would not have left his tavern for
anyone other than dear old Maylord on such a foul day. He ushered them to a table near the fire, and brought a jug of spiced
wine. Chaloner would have preferred something to eat, but Greeting was more interested in liquid refreshment, and he was paying.
The musician drank one cup in a
single swallow, then poured himself another, listening intently while Chaloner related some of what he knew about Smegergill’s
death. He did not tell Greeting everything. No spy was ever that honest with a man who might later transpire to be an enemy
– especially one who was working for Williamson.

‘Were you aware that Maylord knew Newburne?’ Chaloner asked, watching Greeting down his second cup and reach for the third.
‘And both died of cucumbers?’

Greeting nodded. ‘I recently heard from my colleague Hingston that Maylord was secretly teaching Newburne the flageolet, although
it was like tutoring a goat, apparently. And then of course there is the Smithfield connection – something I uncovered just
this morning, because Smegergill was Maylord’s sole beneficiary, but I am Smegergill’s, much to my astonishment.’

‘What Smithfield connection?’ Greeting did not look astonished, and Chaloner was not about to forget that the devious musician
had been in desperate need of money, and now he had inherited a fortune. Was it really a coincidence? And there was another
thing: surely, it was odd for Williamson to order Smegergill’s heir to explore the circumstances of Smegergill’s death? Or
was the Spymaster unaware of the connection between the two men?

‘Maylord owned a shop there. I vaguely recall him telling me that he had bought one from a distant cousin a few years ago,
but he could not be bothered with it, so Newburne managed it for him. Apparently, it earned a respectable income, but Maylord
recently became aware that Newburne had been less than honest with him.’

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled while Greeting drank more
wine. Smegergill had said Maylord thought he was being cheated, and learning that Newburne was the culprit came as no surprise.
The spy considered the likely outcome of Maylord’s suspicions. He would have tackled the solicitor about the discrepancies,
but Newburne would naturally have denied the accusations, so Maylord would have needed proof. He had begun to pry. His Thames
Street house was near one of Newburne’s properties, and perhaps it was there that the secret music lessons had taken place.
But then what? Had Maylord uncovered more than he had bargained for, and had that knowledge driven him to write the agitated
note to Chaloner? Or had he laid hold of the keys to Newburne’s jewel box as an act of petty revenge, and then realised he
had bitten off more than he could chew?

And what did Smegergill know about the affair? When Chaloner had asked, Smegergill said that Maylord had refused to confide
on the grounds of ensuring his friend’s safety. Was it true? There were a number of reasons why Chaloner now thought it was
not. First, Smegergill had been in possession of a key to Newburne’s box, and although it was possible he did not know what
it was, Chaloner thought it unlikely – it would not have been on his person if he had considered it unimportant. Second, Smegergill
knew some Hectors, and Chaloner was beginning to believe Ireton’s contention that he and his cronies had not killed the man.
Did that mean Smegergill and the felons were in league somehow? And finally, Chaloner had not forgotten Thurloe’s instinctive
distrust of the man. Smegergill was an enigma. Some people found him ‘difficult’, some thought he was losing his mind, and
others considered him harmless. They could not all be right, so which was the real man?

‘What do
you
know about Smegergill?’ he asked, watching Greeting finish the wine in the jug.

‘I have learned that he was actually French, although you would not know it to speak to him. He worked in Paris for years,
but came here about a decade ago. He was musician to Cromwell, but that dubious connection was overlooked in view of his talent
– along with the fact that he composed a rather nice Birthday Ode for the Duke of Buckingham.’

‘Was he in England before the wars?’

Greeting shook his head. ‘He arrived long after that. Why?’

‘He said he knew me as a child. He remembered a particular tree on my father’s estate.’

‘Then he was mistaken – he could be confused on occasion.’

But Chaloner was becoming increasingly convinced that Smegergill was not as confused as he had let people think. He thought
about the discussion in which Smegergill had claimed he was a friend of Chaloner’s family. On reflection, it contained inconsistencies.
One example was Smegergill saying that all Chaloner’s siblings were talented musicians, which was untrue: his sisters were
skilled, but his brothers were adequate at best. Then there was the May-day celebration under the oak on the Chaloner estate.
Maylord
had loved the occasion, and had probably told Smegergill about it. And then, Chaloner realised with a flash of understanding,
Smegergill had passed off the memories as his own.

But why? The answer was chillingly clear. Maylord must have confided to Smegergill that he had written to Chaloner – an intelligence
officer – about his troubles. But Smegergill had inherited those troubles, along with
his friend’s goods, and he had no one to help
him
. And then along came Chaloner, eager to learn the truth behind Maylord’s death. The spy ran through more of the conversation
in his head: Smegergill’s forgetfulness and eccentricity had occurred later,
after
he had established that Chaloner was willing to help him.

So, what had Smegergill hoped they might learn together? Could it have been the location of the documents he had mentioned?
Chaloner stared into his cup. Of course it was! Maylord had hidden them well enough to fool amateurs, and Smegergill knew
the services of a professional spy were needed to locate them. Of course, Maylord had hidden them too well for professional
spies, too, and all Chaloner had been able to unearth was music.

‘Poor old Maylord,’ Greeting was saying. ‘Smegergill arranged for him to come here, you know. He suddenly became frightened
in Thames Street, so Smegergill spoke to Genew on his behalf. Smegergill and I were the only ones who knew about Maylord’s
abrupt relocation.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘Smegergill told me he did not know where Maylord had moved.’

‘Perhaps he forgot, although I confess I did not think his absent-mindedness had reached those sorts of levels. He must have
decided he did not want to tell you for some reason.’

Chaloner nodded, while more solutions snapped clear in his mind. Smegergill’s purse had been empty, so how had he intended
to pay for the coach to the Rhenish Wine House? The answer was that he knew his Hector friends would be willing to give him
a ride. And what would have happened after Chaloner had located the
documents? The spy doubted Smegergill would have been willing to share. So what had gone wrong in St Bartholomew’s churchyard,
and why had Smegergill died? Chaloner already knew Greeting was the real target, and Ireton must have realised the mistake
as soon as he recognised a man he knew. Smegergill had not called for help, which suggested he had not been overly alarmed
at the time.

Unsettled by his conclusions, Chaloner handed over Smegergill’s ring; the keys he decided to keep. ‘This belonged to Smegergill,
so it is now legally yours.’

‘I thought the murderer had stolen that from his body.’ Greeting regarded him warily.

‘If I were the culprit, do you think I would give you evidence of my guilt in a crowded tavern? I have already admitted that
I was with him when he died, and now I am telling you that I took his ring, too. I was not thinking clearly at the time, but
I swear I never intended to keep it.’

‘Then I shall give you the benefit of the doubt,’ said Greeting, although there was uncertainty in his voice. ‘My fortunes
are on the rise today. I may even be able to buy my way clear of Williamson.’

Chaloner doubted it: Spymasters did not relinquish hold over their victims that easily.

Greeting stared at the ring. ‘This was actually Maylord’s, but Smegergill took to wearing it after he died. You think Smegergill
was losing his wits, but Maylord was the one
really
worried about it. Look.’ He prised up the stone, revealing a space inside. A tiny scroll of paper dropped out.

Chaloner caught it as it rolled to the edge of the table. ‘What is it?’

Greeting smiled sadly. ‘It is common knowledge that the keepers of Bedlam will not take you if you know the answers to two
questions: your date of birth and the names of your parents. Maylord often told me he was anticipating a visit from the Bedlam
men, and once confided that he kept the answers to both questions inside his ring, just in case the wardens arrived and his
memory failed him.’

Chaloner wrestled with the minute scrap of paper, thinking it would not have helped Maylord, because it would have taken him
too long to unfurl; the Bedlam men would have had him anyway. ‘Smegergill was a shade mad, though,’ he said as he struggled.
‘He went around telling people he was Caesar.’

Greeting laughed. ‘But he
was
Caesar. As a child, he was adopted by a dean called Caesar, and he often used the name for his compositions. I know it does
not sound very likely, but it is perfectly true. Personally, I suspect he was as sane as you and me, and probably a good deal
more clever.’

Chaloner had an uncomfortable feeling that Greeting was right, and that he had been a fool to let the old man deceive him
so completely. He turned his attention to the paper, which comprised not a reminder of sires and birthdays, but a fragment
of music – a scale with letters written underneath. He gazed at it with sorrow, assuming Maylord had been afraid he would
forget those, too. Yet when he looked more closely, he saw the letters did not correspond with the names of the notes – for
example, C-sharp had the letter T under it, while E-flat had a W.

‘This is not answers for the Bedlam men.’

Greeting took it from him, regarded it with disinterest, then tossed it on the fire before Chaloner could stop him.
‘Poor Maylord! It looks as though he really was losing his mind.’

Chaloner left the Rhenish Wine House and went home for dry clothes, selecting some of the better ones from the pile Maude
had delivered. The cat was among them, having clawed them into a nest of its own design, and it was not pleased when it was
ousted. It had deposited another rat by the hearth, which went to join the growing pile on the mantelpiece. Chaloner put the
onion and sage next to them, and was reminded of his landlord’s recipe for rat stew. He sincerely hoped it would not be necessary.

Wearing an old-fashioned cloak that was far better at repelling rain than any coat, he left for Monkwell Street. The altercation
with Leybourn was preying on his mind, and he wanted to apologise to him for accusing Mary of being Newburne’s whore. The
streets were awash, and he abandoned any attempt to keep his feet dry; to do otherwise necessitated the kind of acrobatics
for which he had no energy. The Fleet bridge at Ludgate was open again, although water lapped perilously close to the top
of it, and a layer of odorous sludge along one side showed the level to which it had flooded the previous night.

He arrived at Monkwell Street, where Leybourn’s brother told him the couple had gone to Smithfield. Chaloner was uneasy. Why
would Mary take him there? Was she intending to have him murdered, then lay claim to his house on the grounds that they had
been living as man and wife?

‘I liked Mary at first, because she made Will happy,’ said Rob Leybourn, as Chaloner prepared to go after them. ‘But she has
some very unpalatable friends.’

‘Like Jonas Kirby?’

‘He is among the better ones. She has invited Ellis Crisp for dinner tomorrow – the Butcher of Smithfield! I would assume
she
wants
our business to fail by forcing Will to associate with villains, but then she only hurts herself. Did you know he lost all
his money to burglars last night? Until he makes more there will be no funds for plays and soirées. She must be livid, and
I would not want to be in the thief ’s shoes.’

‘He is so bedazzled by her that he would probably go into debt rather than disappoint her.’

Rob sighed. ‘Bewitched, more like. Still, he has not had a woman in years, so I suppose you cannot blame him for grabbing
the one who hurls herself at him. I just wish it had not been her. Are you going to find him? Keep him busy, if you can –
I plan to move his most valuable books to my house this afternoon. There are fewer than there should be, and I think she has
been selling them off. I want the rest where she cannot get at them.’

When Chaloner reached Duck Lane, he saw a great gathering of people. To his consternation, their attention seemed to be focussed
on Hodgkinson’s print-shop. Crisp’s henchmen were out in force, jostling people for amusement. No one had the courage to tell
them to behave themselves.