The Butcher of Smithfield (5 page)

‘Have there been any other odd deaths lately, then?’ Chaloner pressed. ‘Inexplicable or—’

‘Of course there have! This is London, and people die of strange things all the time. Why are you asking such questions? It
is Newburne I want you to explore, not the entire city.’

‘Because Newburne’s death may not be an isolated event, especially if L’Estrange and Muddiman are embroiled in a feud. If
there have been other incidents, it would be helpful to know about them before I start investigating.’

‘I am sure L’Estrange would have mentioned other unusual deaths, if there were any. However, you will find Newburne’s demise
is
an isolated event, so do not make it more complex than it is.’

‘Why do you want to know what happened to Newburne, sir?’ Chaloner’s instincts – usually reliable – told him the Earl was
holding something back. However, if he was going to be trespassing on Williamson’s territory, then he needed the whole truth.
‘Because of your friendship with L’Estrange? Because you want to antagonise Williamson? Or is there another reason?’

The Earl grimaced. ‘Your blunt tongue will land you in serious trouble one day, Heyden. It is a good thing you are not a politician
– you would be dead or disgraced in a week.’

‘Newburne, sir,’ prompted Chaloner, refusing to be sidetracked.

The Earl sighed in a long-suffering manner. ‘Very well. During the wars, L’Estrange published some pro-Royalist pamphlets
at considerable risk – and expense – to himself. He helped our cause immeasurably then, and I would like to return the favour
now. I always remember my friends.’

There was a hesitancy in his reply that told Chaloner he still did not have the complete answer, but there was only so far
he could push the man. ‘Will you tell me what you know about Newburne?’

‘He was a solicitor, employed by L’Estrange to hunt out illegal publications. You must have heard of him. It was he who brought
about the saying “Arise, Tom Newburne”.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What does that mean?’

The Earl became prissy. ‘I use it as an expletive, although I avoid foul language, as a rule.’

‘That is foul language?’

‘Yes, when spoken with feeling,’ replied Clarendon
tartly. ‘And please do not offer to teach me a few epithets you consider more apposite, because coarse swearing is anathema
to me.’

The interview was becoming a bit of a trial, and Chaloner was still tired after his long journey. Manfully, he tried to stifle
his exasperation. ‘Is there anything else?’

Clarendon rattled on as if he had not spoken. ‘I am surprised you have never come across the saying, although I suppose you
have not had much chance to familiarise yourself with London customs, given that you have not deigned to live here for more
than a few weeks in the last decade. But what else can I tell you about Newburne? He was about fifty years of age, and very
corrupt. He was unethical in a number of ways, but one of his most brazen was in taking bribes from printers and booksellers
to keep quiet about pamphlets published without a royal license. Oh, and he had no hair.’

It was a curious combination of facts. ‘Did you know him personally?’

Clarendon waved the fat hand again. ‘I met him once or twice when I visited L’Estrange. His funeral is on Thursday, so you
do not have many days, should you wish to inspect the corpse.’

‘So, you think he was murdered,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘You do not think the cucumber killed him, or you would not suggest I
examine the body.’

Clarendon frowned at the remark. ‘I do not
know
if he died naturally, Heyden – that is what I want
you
to find out. Of course, you must ask your questions discreetly, because, as you pointed out, Williamson will not appreciate
us interfering with a government investigation.’

Chaloner tried one last time to elicit the whole truth from the man. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’

‘No,’ said the Earl briskly. He stood and rubbed his hands together; Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a more furtive
gesture. ‘You will want to question L’Estrange, of course, but you cannot barge in unannounced, so tell him you have just
returned from Spain and Portugal, and that you have intelligence for his newsbooks. You must have learned something there
that English readers will find interesting.’

Chaloner was pleasantly surprised. It was a good idea, and would allow him access to Newburne’s place of work without arousing
suspicion. ‘I can think of a few odds and ends.’

‘Good, although it would be a kindness to the government if these “odds and ends” were actually true. It is embarrassing when
a snippet of information is printed, and it later transpires to be a lie – these things are difficult to deny once they are
in the public domain, you see. And there is just one more thing before you go.’

‘Sir?’ Chaloner did not like the sly expression on the Lord Chancellor’s face.

‘L’Estrange is a man of fierce passions, and he despises phanatiques most of all.’

‘Fanatics?’

‘Meaning Puritans, Roundheads and regicides. So, watch what you tell him about yourself.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘I am none of those things, sir – especially the latter.’

‘But your uncle was a king-killer, and the Chaloner clan is still full of dedicated Parliamentarians. No one in London knows
your real name except me, Thurloe and your friend William Leybourn. Make sure it stays that way, because L’Estrange will kill
you if he finds out who you are.’

‘He is welcome to try,’ muttered Chaloner.

The Earl did not hear him. ‘You can start your investigation tomorrow. L’Estrange’s offices are on Ivy Lane – that is near
St Paul’s, in case you do not know – and he will be open for business at dawn. Do not forget to keep me informed.’

Chaloner left Worcester House with a vague sense of unease. He was not particularly worried about L’Estrange, but he did not
like the notion that there was something he was not being told. Was the Earl deliberately sending him half-prepared into a
dangerous situation, to punish him for serving the Queen? Chaloner wanted to believe the Lord Chancellor was above such pettiness,
but found he was unable to do so.

Weak sunshine was beginning to slant through the clouds as Chaloner left Worcester House, and when he glanced down one of
the lanes that led to the river, he saw a rainbow shimmering in the dark clouds above Southwark. The ground was sticky from
the recent deluge, and a clot of rubbish had blocked one of the drains, so The Strand was flooded with a filthy brown ooze.
Chaloner leapt to one side as a cart thundered past, spraying pedestrians with watery filth.

He walked towards Westminster, intending to pay his respects to the dead Maylord. There were at least two Rhenish wine houses
in the area, which specialised in the sale of the dry white vintages that were produced around the River Rhine. He had learned
from Greeting that Maylord’s home was in the oldest of them, a large, venerable building on a narrow lane called Wise’s Alley.
It was four storeys high, and had vines carved along the front. It had been in the hands of the Genew family for at least
sixty years, and was frequented by clerks from White Hall, as well as officials from the Houses of Parliament and the Exchequer.

As soon as he was inside, Chaloner’s eyes began to smart. Because it was noon, the tavern was full of people enjoying their
midday victuals, and it seemed that every one of them had a pipe; the smoke was so dense that Chaloner could not see the back
of the room at all. Men, and a few women, sat at tables reading, drinking pale Rhenish wine, and eating chops or fish. The
odour of seafood past its best combined unpleasantly with the stink of burning logs on the hearth and the patrons’ wet feet.
Someone had dropped a newsbook on the floor, so Chaloner retrieved it, shaking off the excess mud and water. It comprised
eight small pages, and proudly declared itself as
The Newes, published for the satisfaction and Information of the People With privilege
. He turned to the back and saw it was printed by ‘Thomas Hodgkinson, living in Thames Street, over against Baynard’s Castle’.

Unlike a coffee house, there was no expectation for patrons to sit together and be sociable, so he found an empty table, instinctively
choosing one where he could sit with his back to the wall. He ordered buttered ale – warm beer mixed with melted butter and
spices – and paid for it with a token he had found in his pocket. A chronic shortage of small change had led many taverners
to produce their own: they comprised discs of metal or leather that were widely accepted in lieu of real money. Although not
strictly legal tender, most Londoners usually had several in their purses at any given time, and most respectable establishments
accepted them.

Landlord Genew was a thin, unhealthy man in a clean white apron. It was said that he tasted every cask of wine that was broached,
to ensure his customers were never served with wares that were anything less than the best. Chaloner did not think his devotion
to quality was doing
him much good, because his skin had a yellowish sheen and his eyes were bloodshot. Genew shook his grizzled head sadly when
he learned what Chaloner had come to do.

‘Poor Maylord. He owned a house in Thames Street, but moved here two weeks ago.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘He told his friends that he wanted to be near his work at White Hall, but he confided the truth to me. It was to avoid a
cousin who visited him at inappropriate hours. He said she wanted to seduce him.’

Chaloner knew Maylord had no family, and wondered why the musician had felt the need to lie. ‘Has she been to pay her respects
to his body?’

‘He lies in St Margaret’s Church – my patrons do not like the notion of a corpse rotting above their heads as they drink,
so he could not stay here – but the vergers say no kin have been, male or female. Many friends have, though. The vergers have
been all but overwhelmed.’

‘He was a popular man,’ said Chaloner, assailed by another wave of sadness.

‘Even that horrible Spymaster Williamson and his creature Hickes visited, although they were under a moral obligation to put
in an appearance, because Maylord was a Court employee.’

‘Do you still have his belongings?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether there was something among Maylord’s possessions that
might give some clue as to what had upset him before he had died. Although the notion of pawing through them was distasteful,
he thought Maylord would not have minded, under the circumstances. ‘Or have you already let his room?’

Genew was offended. ‘Of course not! That would
be deemed as acting with indecent haste. They will remain
in situ
until his funeral next Saturday. It is only one of the attics on the top floor anyway, and the rent is insignificant.’

‘Do you know if he was ever visited by a solicitor called Newburne?’ asked Chaloner, keen to ascertain whether there was a
connection between the two men, other than cucumbers.

‘If he had, I would not have let him in,’ declared Genew. ‘Newburne had fingers in far too many rancid pies, and Maylord would
never have endured an acquaintance with a fellow like
him
, anyway.’

‘Newburne was involved in illegal activities?’

Genew became uneasy. ‘Perhaps they were not illegal as such, but they were unpopular. He used to spy on me – to make sure
I only provide
official
newsbooks for my customers to read. Had I bought others, he would have reported me to L’Estrange, and I would have been fined.’

When Genew had gone, Chaloner drank the buttered ale and read
The Newes
. Its front page was dominated by a harangue from the editor about a conspiracy of phanatiques in the north:
Well, gentlemen, after all this Noyse and Bustle, was there really a plot or no, do ye think? That’s the plot now, my masters,
to persuade the people that there was no Plot at all, and that all this Hurly-burly and alarme was nothing in the whole world
but a Trick of State.
Chaloner grimaced. The country was still reeling from two decades of war and regime change, so the last thing it needed was
someone in authority braying about conspiracy and rebellion.

Next came a detailed report about a ‘sad bay mare with a long tail (if not cut off)’ that had been stolen from Mr Sherard
Lorinston, grocer of Smithfield. Anyone coming forward with information was promised to be
‘well satisfied for his pains’. It was tedious stuff, and Chaloner soon lost interest.

The Rhenish Wine House also subscribed to a news
letter
service – the handwritten epistles that were not subject to the same censorship laws as printed newsbooks, so could contain
all manner of items barred from the printing presses. The one that had been left on Chaloner’s table was dog-eared and well
fingered, indicating it had been read a lot. He saw from the date that it and
The Newes
had been produced the same day, but L’Estrange’s official offering had clearly been received with considerably less enthusiasm
than the handwritten one. He turned to the back page, and saw it came from the office of Henry Muddiman. The obvious preference
for Muddiman’s work to L’Estrange’s productions indicated that the ousted editor represented a serious challenge to his successor.

‘Do not believe everything you read in those things,’ whispered a soft voice close behind him.

Chaloner pretended to be surprised, but the truth was that he had noticed someone attempting to creep up on him several minutes
before. He also knew, from the clumsy way the man moved, that it was William Leybourn, mathematician, surveyor and bookseller
of Monkwell Street, Cripplegate. Leybourn was Chaloner’s closest friend in London, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with long
straight hair and a hooked nose. He had gained weight since Chaloner had last seen him; his cheeks were rounder, and there
was a distinct paunch above the belt that held up his fashionable silken breeches.

‘How did you know I was here?’ Chaloner asked, returning the surveyor’s grin of greeting with genuine pleasure.