The Butcher of Smithfield (52 page)

‘We shall have to use the Ludgate bridge,’ said Chaloner, determined to see Leybourn in Thurloe’s care that night.

‘Closed since dusk,’ said the guard. ‘And the one at Bridewell is washed away altogether.’

‘What about the two upstream?’ asked Chaloner, seeing Leybourn brighten.

‘I saw both float past in pieces about an hour ago. You will have to stay in the city for the night, although it will not
be easy. Every inn is full, because lots of people are stranded.’

‘You have no choice now, Tom,’ said Leybourn grimly. ‘You cannot foist me on Thurloe. You cannot even deposit me in Temperance’s
brothel, because the Fleet stands between us. And I am sure you do not want me wandering Smithfield alone. You have no alternative
but to let me help you. So, what shall we do first?’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, standing calf-deep in floodwater with a cat in his arms and a friend determined to avenge himself
on the man he needed to question. ‘This is turning into a difficult night.’

Leybourn drew his sword. It stuck halfway out, and the extra tug he needed to free it from its scabbard forced Chaloner to
jump back. ‘The Butcher will be sorry he ever meddled with me.’

‘He may not be alone,’ said Chaloner unhappily.

* * *

Because Leybourn had a waterproof coat, Chaloner persuaded him to carry the cat, on the grounds that it would keep the animal
dry. It did not occur to the surveyor that an armful of moggy would also slow him down and prevent him from racing into a
situation that might see him killed. Before that, Chaloner had seriously considered hitting him on the head and leaving him
in an alley, but water was gushing everywhere, and he was afraid he might drown. Reluctantly, he conceded the surveyor was
right: there was no choice but to accept his ‘help’ and hope for the best. While they walked, he told him all he had learned
about the murders.

‘So,’ said Leybourn when he had finished. There was a cold, flat light in his eyes that said he was going to be dangerous
company. ‘Where first? How will we unmask this evil Butcher – a man who has been so careful to keep his face concealed that
no one knows what he looks like?’

‘He is someone fit and agile – someone who moves with feline stealth.’

‘L’Estrange? He moves with feline stealth, especially when he is in pursuit of a woman. You should have seen him stalk Mary
earlier …’ He trailed off.

‘I am sorry Will,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I know she was dear to you.’

‘She could not cook, though. My ideal woman must be able to cook.’ Leybourn took a deep breath and changed the subject. ‘You
must have other theories about the Butcher’s identity. A stealthy tread is not much on which to accuse L’Estrange.’

‘What about Hodgkinson as the culprit? Both Hickes and Thurloe say he is dangerous – that his pleasant façade is a ruse.’

‘Well, there you are, then. Hodgkinson. He works for L’Estrange
and
Muddiman, so he obviously has no conscience. And now he is missing. Perhaps the reason he is ‘missing’ is because he knows
his predecessor is due to die in an accident, and he needs to be ready to take his throne.’

It was good logic, especially in light of what Nott had told Chaloner earlier. ‘You may be right, Will. I learned this evening
that
he
bought the book on cucumbers I saw in Wenum’s room. He is definitely involved in something sinister.’ He broke into a trot,
heading for the Thames Street print-house.

Leybourn tried to stop him. ‘He will not be there. He will be at his Smithfield shop, which lies at the heart of the domain
over which he is about to assume control.’

‘I am sure of it – especially as the Thames is on the verge of flooding again, and only a fool will want to be near the river
when that happens.’

‘Then why are you going the wrong way?’

‘We need solid evidence to convict him, but all we have is supposition and theory. It is a good time to search his main lair.
So I will look, while you keep watch and make sure he does not catch us.’

‘All right,’ agreed Leybourn, albeit sulkily. ‘But if he appears, I
will
fight him.’

Thames Street was now more the domain of its namesake than of the land, and Chaloner and Leybourn ploughed through water that
was well past their knees. A candlelit boat rocked its way up the black waters in the opposite direction, and Chaloner did
not like the way familiar sights were being turned on their heads by the deluge.

‘Perhaps I should find a second cat,’ grumbled Leybourn as they paddled towards the dark mass of Baynard’s Castle. ‘Then we
would have two, and I could pretend to be Noah.’

They reached the print-house, which looked dark and forbidding amid the flood waters.

‘Stand in that doorway and keep a tight hold of my cat,’ ordered Chaloner, prepared to resort to devious means to keep Leybourn’s
hands occupied. ‘If anyone comes, whistle. No fighting – you may tackle the wrong person, and we have to be sure before we
attack.’

Leybourn stepped into the alcove Chaloner indicated. ‘Go on, then. And when you are finished, we will go to Smithfield, and
assault this den of thieves – like crusading knights against the infidel.’

Chaloner had a vague memory that most of the crusades had ended in disaster, and hoped Leybourn’s words would not prove to
be prophetic. He picked the print-house lock and stepped inside. The basement was a black, deserted cavern full of peculiar
groaning creaks, as if water had seeped into its very foundations and rendered them unstable. Sloshing sounds indicated the
Thames was already bubbling into it. He lit a lamp and saw the great presses standing in a lake of dirty water that rippled
softly in the waves made by his feet. Bales of paper had been suspended from the ceiling in rope nets, and all written records
had been removed, to save them from the impending flood. Chaloner was about to leave empty-handed, when he saw something had
been left on the press nearest the door. It was the little box containing Newburne’s jewels, apparently abandoned.

The spy stood still and listened hard, but the only sounds were those of water. A rat swam across the room,
heading for the door, leaving a v-shaped trail of ripples in its wake. Chaloner opened the box, expecting to find it empty
because the locks had been smashed. Therefore, he was astonished to see the gems still glittering within it.

‘Step away and put your hands in the air,’ ordered Hodgkinson, emerging from behind the largest of his presses. He held a
gun in his right hand, which he was shielding from the wet with his left. Chaloner did as he was told, hoping Leybourn would
not hear their voices and come to investigate.

‘What are you doing with Newburne’s hoard?’ he demanded. He was not really in a position to interrogate the printer, given
that he was not the one holding the dag, but the box was the last thing he had expected to find in the print-house and he
was hopelessly confused. ‘And what are you doing here?’

‘Where else would I be?’ snapped Hodgkinson. ‘I had a feeling villains would come to see what they could steal while my premises
were underwater.’

‘I am not here to steal,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Unlike you, it seems. I repeat: how did you come by Newburne’s treasure?’

Hodgkinson kept the gun trained on Chaloner’s chest. His face was shadowed, and the spy could not see it well enough to read
its expression. ‘I knew where he hid it – I saw it once, when I visited his house. And I also knew someone recently dug it
up to look at it. So, I retrieved it and brought it here. I should have guessed you were the one who tampered with it when
L’Estrange told me about your strange behaviour in Dorcus’s garden. He did not understand it at all, but now I do.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

‘It is really very simple:
you
are Newburne’s killer. You
have been pretending to investigate, but all the time you are the guilty party. I am shocked, because I thought you were honest.
You gave me back my silver pen, but you are a thief and a killer.’

Chaloner’s mystification increased. ‘What?’

Hodgkinson sighed impatiently. ‘Everyone knows about Newburne’s treasure, and it is obvious that someone murdered him in order
to steal it – to visit all his houses and search them one by one.’

‘But I was not even in the country when he died. I was on a ship, travelling home from Portugal.’

‘I do not believe you. As soon as L’Estrange mentioned your peculiar conduct in the garden, I went straight to the cellar
and saw how someone had dragged a barrel over the place where the gems were hidden. The culprit – you – knew exactly where
to look.’

‘Yes, I did. However, I think Crisp killed Newburne, although the original Crisp has just been dispatched in an explosion.
Whoever steps forward to claim his kingdom will be the real villain.’ Chaloner shrugged. ‘I assumed it was you.’

‘Me?’ Hodgkinson was indignant. ‘How dare you!’

‘Do not believe him, Hodgkinson,’ came a voice from the shadows. Chaloner had sensed another person hiding there, but was
shocked – and dismayed – to see Brome emerge. The bookseller also held a gun, although his hand shook and he looked acutely
uncomfortable. He had, however, a far better weapon than the one Joanna had lent Chaloner. ‘He is lying.’

Chaloner tried to reason with him, his thoughts tumbling chaotically as he struggled for answers. ‘Please put the gun down,
Brome. You know I am no danger to you – we resolved that last night.’

‘That was before I learned you went after the jewels,’ said Brome unsteadily. ‘Hodgkinson was right.’

‘There are serious flaws in his logic,’ said Chaloner to Brome, trying not to sound desperate. While he wasted time trying
to convince them of his innocence, the Butcher was stepping ever closer to his new throne. He saw now that Hodgkinson was
not the culprit, because he would not have spent half the night loitering in his flooded basement if he were – he would have
had more important matters to attend. ‘There is no reason to assume that whoever killed Newburne also knew where he kept his
treasure.’

Hodgkinson sneered. ‘He is trying to confuse us, to worm his way out of my trap. If he had eaten that cake I sent him—’

‘
You
tried to poison me?’ exclaimed Chaloner. ‘Did you send Hickes the exploding oil, too?’

Brome glanced uneasily at the printer. ‘What is he talking about?’

Hodgkinson started to deny the accusation, but then shrugged, exasperated. ‘Heyden keeps asking us awkward questions. He always
seems hungry, so I sent him something to keep him quiet.’

Brome’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘But it is his duty to ask questions! We have nothing to hide – not now he knows about my pamphlet.
He can ask whatever he likes, as far as I am concerned.’

‘And the oil?’ asked Chaloner.

Hodgkinson shook his head firmly. ‘I know nothing about any oil, and why would I want to harm Hickes? Muddiman said he had
him under control.’

‘Did you hear that?’ said Chaloner to Brome. ‘Why would Muddiman make such a comment to Hodgkinson, unless they were in league
together? It is revealing, and
should tell you how Muddiman lays hold of L’Estrange’s news – or some of it, at least. Do you remember the ledger I showed
you, which contained details of sales written by one Wenum? Well, Wenum is Hodgkinson.’

‘Lies!’ spat Hodgkinson. ‘It was Newburne. Tom Newburne and Nobert Wenum are the same name – the same letters arranged in
a different order.’

‘You made a mistake,’ Chaloner went on. ‘You wanted to read about cucumbers so you bought a book by Galen. It was in “Wenum’s”
room in the Rhenish Wine House. Unfortunately, Wenum did not buy the book:
you
did. Nott told me.’

‘Hearsay,’ snapped Hodgkinson. ‘And I—’

‘Wenum’s neighbour talked about his scarred jaw,’ Chaloner continued, ‘but Newburne’s face was unblemished. Remove your false
beard, Hodgkinson, and show Brome what lies beneath.’

Furious, Hodgkinson pulled the trigger. Chaloner ducked instinctively, but there was a resounding click and no more – the
powder was damp. Taking advantage of the printer’s brief moment of surprise, Chaloner made a grab for his beard, while at
the same time trying to prevent him from hauling a second dag from his belt. The hair came off in the spy’s hand, but Hodgkinson
managed to draw his weapon.

‘Stop!’ yelled Brome, brandishing his own gun wildly. ‘Stand away from each other. At once!’

Chaloner complied, afraid the bookseller might shoot him just because he was agitated and afraid. Meanwhile, Hodgkinson’s
free hand was pressed to his ravaged face. His expression was murderous, and Chaloner braced himself, sure the man was going
to kill him where he stood. But the printer lowered the weapon.

‘No.’ His voice shook with rage, but he was holding himself in control. ‘I want answers before you die. How did you know about
my skin?’

Brome gaped in shock: Hodgkinson’s response was a clear admission of guilt.

‘Because you wore a darker beard to Newburne’s funeral,’ explained Chaloner. ‘I assumed you had blackened the real one as
part of your funeral attire, but you had actually donned a completely different hairpiece. I was a fool not to have understood
its significance straight away.’

‘
You
are Wenum?’ asked Brome unsteadily. ‘
You
have been betraying us?’

His accusatory tone drove Hodgkinson to greater anger. The gun came up, and Chaloner hurled himself behind one of the presses.

‘All right,’ snarled the printer, moving to get a clear shot. ‘I am Wenum, although I constructed my character in a way that
meant Newburne would be blamed. I even kept a few law books in the Rhenish Wine House, should anyone ever search it. And why
not? He was corrupt, anyway.’

Desperately, Chaloner tried to make Brome see who was the enemy. ‘It meant that when Newburne died, “Wenum” had to disappear,
too. Hodgkinson was forced to abandon the Rhenish Wine House and spin a tale about Wenum throwing himself in the river. To
confuse matters further, he started a rumour that Wenum was a victim of Mary Cade.’