The Butcher of Smithfield (49 page)

Chaloner nodded. ‘I know. Coded messages are passing between criminals, telling them which ones to steal on which nights.
It is all contained in music.’

‘I suspected it would not take you long to work that out, especially when I learned L’Estrange had given you a copy of one
of the messages. You spies are trained to notice that sort of thing, I believe.’

Chaloner did not like to admit it had taken him longer than it should have done. ‘How do you know about the code? Are you
part of the deception?’

Muddiman gave a wan smile. ‘I am not, although I would not mind a share of the profits. The perpetrators must be making a
fortune, and I envy them.’

‘I would not recommend an association with Hectors – look what happened to Newburne. And I suspect it was they who recently
sent me a poisoned cake, too. Hickes ate it and is lucky to be alive.’

Muddiman looked shocked. ‘Hickes is not a bad man. I am sorry he is a casualty of this war.’

‘Do you know the identity of the killer?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to mention the exploding oil. ‘If so, then please
tell me. Too many people have died already, and he needs to be stopped.’

‘I would rather not ally myself to someone in the Earl of Clarendon’s retinue, if it is all the same to you. It would spoil
my reputation as an independent observer.’

‘I want to stop a murderer, not rule the country. Talk to me. Tell me what you know.’

‘You talk to
me
. Tell me what
you
know. We have both worked out that the horrible music that is sailing rather
freely around London contains orders to horse thieves – and to answer your earlier question, I learned about it from my search
of Finch’s room. I doubt he had put the pieces together, but I am far more clever. Start from the beginning. Explain how you
think this operation functions.’

Chaloner resented the squandered time, but was also aware that he desperately needed any answers the newsman might be willing
to share. ‘Very well. Coffee houses are places to exchange gossip – such as who is away from home, or perhaps who plans to
ride alone on a lonely road. These tales are carefully culled, and passed to the Hectors.’ He thought about the letter Bridges
had sent him, revealing how he had been forced to pass such chatter to Hectors after his accusations had almost seen Mary
hanged for theft.

Muddiman inclined his head. ‘I concur. Butcher Crisp is a powerful criminal, who has a network of people listening in coffee
houses. The intelligence is passed to him, and he sends instructions to villains such as Ireton in the form of music.’

‘Why music? Why not a simpler system? Or why not word of mouth?’

‘Because the music code is very secure – only a few people can decipher it – and it totally conceals the identity of the sender.’

This did not seem right. ‘But you and I both know the sender is Crisp.’

‘Yes, but we cannot
prove
it, can we? You will have to catch him writing the music in order to be sure of his guilt. And using music means the recipients
of these orders never meet the man who issues them.
Ergo
, they can never testify against him. So, what happens after the horses are stolen?’

Chaloner was still unconvinced, but he pressed on. ‘If the victims advertise in
The Newes
or
The Intelligencer
, their property is often returned. L’Estrange has five shillings for every notice printed, and perhaps even a share of the
reward when the thieves restore the horses to their rightful owners.’

Muddiman laughed humourlessly. ‘He gains from the paid advertisements, but I doubt he knows about the music. He plays it from
time to time, but I suspect its real meaning has eluded him.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘You have a tendency to underestimate him, because of his campaign against phantom phanatiques,
but that is a mistake. Even if he does not understand how the music relays messages to thieves, he knows the meaning of an
increased demand for newsbook notices.’

Muddiman gazed at him. ‘Are you saying these thefts benefit him, by encouraging people to buy his newsbooks? The advertisements
actually improve circulation?’

‘That is exactly what I am saying. Victims have their property returned after buying these notices. They discuss it in the
coffee houses. More horses are stolen, and more notices bought. More people purchase the newsbooks to see which of their friends
have lost animals – or had them recovered. And once the newsbook is bought, people read the other stories, too. It
is
about gaining hearts and minds.’

Muddiman shrugged. ‘You may be right, although L’Estrange still has a problem in that people take his “news” with a pinch
of salt. If he limited himself to writing reports, rather than indulging in rants, his publications might be a threat to me.
But they are not, not as they stand.’

‘Do you know how Dury died? Hickes thinks Hodgkinson did it.’

‘When I saw Hickes examine Dury’s body, I waited until he had gone and went to do the same. I saw the bruises on his throat,
so I know he was strangled. But they were
bruises
, not dirty marks.’

Chaloner understood what he was saying. ‘Hodgkinson’s hands are always inky, and he would have left traces of dye on Dury’s
neck. But if Hodgkinson is not guilty, then who is?’

‘L’Estrange?’ asked Muddiman with a shrug. ‘Not Hickes – he would not have inspected Giles’s neck, if he had been responsible.
Crisp? After all, Dury
did
die in Smithfield. Wenum, perhaps.’

‘Wenum is Newburne.’

‘I doubt it, as I have told you already. I appreciate it is odd that Nobert Wenum should happen to spell Tom Newburne, but
perhaps it was Wenum’s private joke.’

Chaloner was not sure about anything connected with Wenum. ‘Then who is he? He abandoned his room about the same time that
Newburne died. And you told me he drowned in the Thames.’

‘But his body was never recovered, was it? Maybe he realised the stakes were being raised, and ran while he could. Spying
is a dangerous business, as I am sure you know all too well.’

The streets were so badly flooded that it was difficult for Chaloner to move very fast through them. Many were solid sheets
of water, under the surface of which lurked potholes and other hazards. The continued rain made no difference to his clothes:
he could not have been more wet had he jumped in the river. Everyone
was the same, and he could even hear some houses groaning, as if their waterlogged timbers were beginning to buckle. Then
people started to yell the news that a roof had collapsed in Canning Street, and three people had been crushed to death.

When Chaloner arrived at Ivy Lane, L’Estrange was not there. Brome and Joanna, removing hats and coats after Sunday church,
said he had gone out but added that he had declined to say where. Brome ventured the opinion that his errand had almost certainly
not been religious, and that one of the Angels was probably involved. Chaloner had been ready for a confrontation, and L’Estrange’s
absence was an anticlimax. He experienced an overwhelming weariness, his sleepless night beginning to catch up with him.

‘Then I should speak to Hodgkinson. It is urgent.’

‘He is not here, either,’ said Brome. ‘I have not seen him today, but that is not unusual for a Sunday. Can we help?’

‘You are soaking,’ said Joanna kindly. ‘Come and sit in the pantry and take some hot wine.’

Chaloner was loath to lose yet more time, but he did not know where else to go for answers. He accepted the wine, burning
his mouth when he tried to drink it too soon. He felt like dashing the cup against the wall in frustration, because everything
seemed to be taking too long, even wine to cool.

‘Do you know who writes that discordant racket for L’Estrange?’ he asked, trying to calm himself. ‘The stuff we tried to play
on Friday?’

‘I do not think he commissions it,’ said Joanna, seeming to sense his brewing agitation, and speaking softly to soothe him.
‘And it is not delivered, as far as we know;
he just acquires it. Henry believes it is some kind of code, and that he is communicating with someone.’

Chaloner regarded Brome sharply. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because the tunes are not real music,’ explained Brome. ‘The harmonies are wrong, and there are too many flats and sharps.
He obtains information for his newsbooks from so many sources, that I have wondered whether these airs contain snippets of
foreign intelligence, sent to him by spies.’

‘I disagree, though,’ said Joanna. ‘I believe it is just bad music. What do you think, Mr Heyden?’

‘That I prefer more traditional melodies,’ replied Chaloner noncommittally.

‘Well, I do not really want to know how L’Estrange gathers his news,’ said Brome with a shudder. ‘It is bound to be distasteful,
and all I want is a quiet life with Joanna.’

Chaloner was afraid he was not going to have it. He disliked upsetting a man who had been friendly and hospitable towards
him, but he needed to know for certain that Hickes had told the truth about Brome being in the Spymaster’s pay. He took a
deep breath and launched into an attack.

‘I understand you spy on L’Estrange for Williamson,’ he began baldly.

Joanna’s sweet face crumpled into a mask of dismay, and the cup she had been holding clattered to the floor. ‘How dare you
say such a thing! We have never—’

Brome silenced her by laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘Do not try to mislead him, dearest. It will only make matters worse,
and if someone at White Hall has been indiscreet, then the safest course of action now is for us to tell the truth. Do not
forget that Heyden is the Lord
Chancellor’s man – and we cannot afford to be on the wrong side of
another
powerful member of government.’

‘No,’ said Joanna, regarding Chaloner with a stricken expression that cut him to the core. ‘I will not forget that. Not again.’
She turned and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder.

Brome’s voice shook slightly. ‘I had no choice but to do what Williamson asked, because he discovered something about me that
I would rather was kept quiet.’

‘You wrote seditious pamphlets,’ said Chaloner.

Joanna’s head jerked up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘He wrote
a
pamphlet, when he was fifteen. It praised the Commonwealth when Cromwell was Protector, so was regarded as patriotic at the
time. But now it is treason. It is unfair! Who did not do things then that he would never consider now?’

‘Who told you about the pamphlet?’ asked Brome hoarsely. ‘Surely not Williamson? He gave me his word that he would say nothing
if I did as he asked.’

Joanna stood suddenly, and grabbed a poker from the fire. Her hands shook so badly that she was in danger of dropping it.
‘It does not matter who told him, but we cannot let him tell anyone else. The government will say we are phanatiques. They
will seize our shop and we will be disgraced, ruined.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Brome uneasily. ‘Dash out his brains? In our sitting room?’

Tears slid so fast down Joanna’s cheeks that Chaloner imagined she was all but blinded. ‘I will not let him destroy you. I
will not! They can hang me for murder, but I will protect you with all I have.’

‘Joanna, please,’ said Brome, making an unsteady lunge towards her. Joanna raised the weapon and he
flinched backwards, stumbling into Chaloner. ‘This is not helping.’

Joanna aimed a blow at Chaloner, but he evaded it with ease, and grabbed the iron when she was off balance. She tried to resist,
but it was not many moments before the poker was back in the hearth.

‘I doubt anyone will care about a pamphlet published so long ago,’ said Chaloner gently, helping Joanna into a chair. She
was shaking violently and sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Williamson has played on your fears – terrorised you into
thinking he has uncovered a darker secret than is the case.’

Brome gazed miserably at him, and when he spoke, his voice was low with shame. ‘I penned a sentence that mocked the old king’s
beard, and Williamson said I would hang if he ever had cause to show it to anyone at Court.’

It was Chaloner’s turn to stare. ‘He said
that
was seditious?’

Brome nodded, red with mortification. ‘I did not mean it. The King’s father had a very nice beard, and I imagine I was jealous
of it at the time, because I did not have one.’

Chaloner rubbed his head, wondering how the Spymaster could sleep at night when he took advantage of such easy prey. ‘How
did Williamson find out about it in the first place?’

Joanna was still crying, great shuddering sobs that wracked her body. Brome knelt next to her and held her tightly. ‘I believe
someone sent it to him for malice, but I do not know who.’

Chaloner had his suspicions. ‘Muddiman. Or Dury. They produced the Commonwealth’s newsbooks, and
probably have a fine collection of Parliamentarian literature between them.’

‘Muddiman has an excellent memory,’ conceded Brome slowly. ‘He must have recalled me writing something and looked it up. But
why would he do such a spiteful thing?’

‘To sow the seeds of discord between L’Estrange and his assistant,’ explained Chaloner. ‘A weakened L’Estrange is a good thing
for him.’

‘Oh, God!’ said Brome shakily. ‘Of course! I should have seen it weeks ago. I do not think I am cut out for this sort of subterfuge.’

Chaloner was sure of it. ‘So what have you told Williamson about L’Estrange?’

‘Nothing!’ cried Brome. ‘Because there is nothing to tell. Believe me, I would have uncovered something if it was there to
find, given the pressure Williamson puts me under. L’Estrange is cantankerous, greedy, irritable and not always scrupulously
honest with money, but these are minor faults, and he does nothing brazenly illegal.’

‘He is a rake,’ said Joanna. Her eyes had swollen from tears, and she gripped Brome’s coat so hard that her knuckles were
white. ‘Mean and selfish. And likes to seduce other men’s wives.’

‘He has been after Joanna for ages,’ added Brome.

She gave him a wan smile, then turned back to Chaloner. ‘What will you do now? Inform L’Estrange what we have been doing?
Or tell the Earl how I almost killed his spy with a poker?’