The Butcher of Smithfield (53 page)

Hodgkinson sneered, crouching with the firearm clutched in both hands as he pointed it towards where he thought Chaloner was
hiding. ‘What choice did I have? Men like you were prying into affairs that were none of their concern, spoiling everything.’

‘Hickes believed your tales, and so did Spymaster
Williamson, which is why they never looked very closely at Wenum – a man they believe to be dead.’

‘Put down the gun, Hodgkinson,’ said Brome quietly. ‘Selling L’Estrange’s news to Muddiman was dishonest and stupid, but when
we explain—’

‘No,’ grated Hodgkinson. ‘L’Estrange will not appreciate that printing is a hard business and that profits must be made where
they can. He will accuse me of being a phanatique.’

Brome’s mouth snapped shut, telling the printer he was right. Chaloner rolled his eyes, wishing Brome was endowed with a little
more strength of character. Hodgkinson’s guilt had been irrefutably exposed, but Brome still hoped for a happy ending.

‘What do you intend to do with Newburne’s hoard?’ Chaloner asked, dodging to one side when Hodgkinson took aim again. ‘Share
it between you?’

‘Of course not!’ cried Brome, shocked. ‘Hodgkinson brought it here for safekeeping, and we intend to see it returned to its
rightful owners – the people Newburne defrauded. I cannot imagine how we will locate them all, but we shall do our best.’

Chaloner suspected Hodgkinson had a different plan in mind, and he saw neither he nor Brome were going to be allowed to leave
Thames Street alive. The printer’s crimes were simply too great to allow witnesses to live.

‘Stop!’

A dark shadow streaked from Leybourn’s arms as he struggled to draw his sword. There was a deafening bang, and something grazed
Chaloner’s hat as he threw himself to the floor. He said yet another silent prayer of thanks for Isabella’s gift. A second
boom followed the first. Water surged into his ears, and spray was everywhere. Then all was silent.

* * *

Cautiously, Chaloner clambered to his feet and saw Hodgkinson floating face-down and unmoving in the water. Brome stood with
his gun dangling from his fingers, while Leybourn, alarmed by the sudden discharge of deadly weapons, had raced back outside,
and was taking shelter in the street.

‘What have I done?’ whispered Brome, appalled. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’

Chaloner spat foul water from his mouth. ‘It was not your fault. Hodgkinson—’

But Brome was full of anguish. ‘It
was
my fault! I took his life with this …’ Repelled, he flung the dag away from him, and stood wiping his hand on his coat, as
if trying to clean it. When he next spoke, his voice was flat and expressionless. ‘I will take Newburne’s jewels to L’Estrange
and ask him to return them to their rightful owners. Catching whoever tried to steal them from his cellar seems unimportant
now. Why did you come here, if it was not for the treasure?’

‘To find evidence of Hodgkinson’s guilt.’ Chaloner did not explain that he had had the printer in his sights as the Butcher
of Smithfield. ‘Why take the jewels to L’Estrange? You of all people know he is not always honest.’

Brome shrugged. ‘He is my master, and ethical in his own way. If I ask him to track down the victims of Newburne the phanatique,
he will do it with all the fervour of an avenging angel. He is the best man for the task, other than perhaps your Earl. Unfortunately,
though, Clarendon is on the other side of a flooded river.’

Chaloner gestured around the dark print-house. ‘Why did you come here tonight?’

‘Because Hodgkinson sent for me, and he was my
friend.’ Brome’s voice trembled as he looked at the printer’s body. ‘I see I was wrong, and his betrayal emphasises the fact
that I have no place here in London.’

‘You intend to run?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘Don’t. It will look as though—’

‘I do not care what it looks like,’ said Brome in the same numb tone. ‘The situation has escalated out of control, and a prudent
disappearance is the only option open to me. Will you give me a hour’s grace, for friendship’s sake? To collect Joanna and
flee this horrible city? If you do not trust me to give the jewels to L’Estrange, then take them yourself.’

Chaloner declined to accept the proffered box. ‘I must go to Smithfield before the Butcher – whoever he is – assumes power.
I cannot waste time with treasure.’

‘It is reckless and stupid to go to Smithfield without knowing the identity of the man you think is responsible for so much
evil,’ said Brome, seeming to come out of his daze a little. ‘You need more information. Talk to Muddiman. He knows more about
London than anyone else, and might be willing to help you prevent a catastrophe.’

‘All the way back to The Strand?’ Brome’s suggestion made sense, but it would take far too long.

‘The bridges are closed, so he cannot have gone home. Try his favourite coffee house – the Turk’s Head at St Paul’s. And while
you are there, ask him about this exploding oil, too. He bought a pamphlet from me on the subject just last week.’

Leybourn emerged from the shadows to make a lunge for Brome as he left the print-house, but the bookseller flinched away from
the clumsily wielded weapon and disappeared into the night.

‘Why are you letting him go?’ demanded Leybourn. ‘He just shot Hodgkinson. I saw him!’

Chaloner was too weary to explain. ‘He saved my life, Will. The least I can do is return the favour.’

Leybourn waved his sword again. ‘He is irrelevant, anyway. Our first duty is to stop the Butcher from realising his nefarious
plans. So, shall we go straight to Smithfield, or shall we do as Brome suggested and see what Muddiman is prepared to tell
us?’

‘Muddiman,’ replied Chaloner, hurrying into the street. ‘Brome is right: knowledge is power, and we do not have enough of
it to tackle the Butcher yet.’

‘What about your cat?’ asked Leybourn, as the spy set off towards St Paul’s. He looked sheepish. ‘I am afraid I dropped it.’

Chaloner grimaced, wishing Leybourn had looked after the animal, as he had been told.

‘It will find its way home.’ Leybourn was trotting to keep up with him. ‘But I am not sure I understand what happened in there.
Newburne’s treasure—’

‘I will explain later,’ said Chaloner, not wanting to waste breath that could be used for running. It was still dark, but
the first glimmerings of dawn were lightening the night sky. It would come late, because of the rain, but at least he could
see where he was going. ‘Hurry!’

‘So the Butcher was not Hodgkinson?’ said Leybourn, beginning to pant.

Chaloner ran harder, splashing through water and oblivious to the spray that flew around him. ‘No.’

‘Maybe Muddiman is, then,’ gasped Leybourn. ‘For several reasons. He gave exploding oil to Hickes, to dispatch him before
he reported something
really
incriminating to Williamson. He hired Hodgkinson to betray
L’Estrange’s secrets. He probably killed Dury, because they argued. He bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day before
one was left at the scene of Newburne’s death. And he is bitter because he lost control of the newsbooks to L’Estrange.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Muddiman is not the Butcher.’

‘Yes he is,’ countered Leybourn firmly. ‘And
that
is why he is at his coffee house and not at home tonight. He is on this side of the Fleet River, because he is preparing
to seize his Smithfield throne.’

Lights burned in the Turk’s Head Coffee House. The windows had steamed up, so it was impossible to see inside, and the distinctive
reek of burned coffee wafted into the street, combining unpleasantly with the stench of overloaded sewers. Chaloner was about
to go in, when the door opened and Muddiman himself bustled out. He carried a bag, and behind him were two servants bearing
boxes. The newsman raised his arm and a cart immediately rattled towards him, loaded with goods and covered with a sheet of
oiled canvas.

‘Going somewhere?’ asked Chaloner softly, stepping in front of him.

Muddiman jumped in alarm. ‘The river is set to burst its banks, and I do not want to be here when it does. Besides, I meet
L’Estrange everywhere I go these days, and he has a nasty habit of drawing his sword. Without Dury to protect me, I am safer
in the country.’

‘L’Estrange is in there?’ asked Leybourn, trying to peer through the glass. ‘Have you considered the fact that he may have
good reason to grab his weapon when you appear? You are a killer, and thus a dangerous man. You
murdered Newburne with poisonous lozenges, and left one of the cucumbers you bought by his side.’

Chaloner winced.

‘I did no such thing,’ objected Muddiman indignantly. ‘My wife used those fruits to make me a remedy for wind. Ask her, my
servants
and
my apothecary. They concocted the potion together.’

Chaloner suspected he was telling the truth, because it was a tale that could easily be verified, and Muddiman was not stupid.

‘You gave a flask of exploding oil to Hickes,’ Leybourn went on, going for his suspect like a dog with a rat.

‘Did I?’ asked Muddiman coldly. ‘Do you think me a fool, then, to blow up the Spymaster’s best agent? Besides, Hickes is no
threat to me. He is incompetent.’

‘But now Dury is dead, Hickes will concentrate all his attention on you, and that will be inconvenient,’ said Leybourn, shaking
off the warning hand that Chaloner laid on his arm.

Muddiman sighed. ‘You might have a point,
if
I was doing something I do not want Williamson to know about. But I am not.’

‘How about buying secrets from Hodgkinson?’ asked Chaloner, shoving Leybourn hard in an attempt to make him shut up. ‘Secrets
that have damaged Williamson’s newsbooks?’

‘Hodgkinson has confessed to being Wenum, so do not deny it,’ added Leybourn.

‘You are lying,’ said Muddiman dismissively. ‘Hodgkinson is not Wenum. Wenum had something wrong with his face, and Hodgkinson
has a beard—’ He stopped speaking as he saw how the two facts fitted together, but quickly rallied. ‘You cannot prove I sent
Hickes the oil.’

‘Actually, I can,’ said Chaloner. ‘When I visited your office on Monday, I saw a pamphlet on such devices, and Brome just
said he sold you one. It is not a subject a man reads about for fun, as I am sure Williamson will agree when he searches your
home and finds it. But that is not your only crime. You are also responsible for Brome spying on L’Estrange. You sent Williamson
some silly broadsheet Brome wrote as a child, knowing Williamson would use it to force him into turning informer.’

Muddiman sneered. ‘You call that a crime? Besides, it was Williamson who resorted to blackmail, not I. All I did was send
our noble Spymaster an anonymous gift. It was a waste of time, though. I wanted Brome to discover something so unsavoury about
L’Estrange that it would see him ousted, but he learned nothing we do not know already. And neither of them had the wits to
work out the business with the music and the stolen horses.’

‘I have decided you are right: Muddiman is not Crisp,’ whispered Leybourn in Chaloner’s ear. His voice was hard and cold.
‘
L’Estrange
is.’

‘He is not,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘He cannot be, because—’

He broke off when the door to the coffee house creaked, and the editor himself stepped out.

‘Hah!’ yelled Leybourn in savage delight.

‘Christ!’ sighed Chaloner, bracing himself for yet more trouble. ‘What wretched timing!’

L’Estrange grinned when he saw Muddiman talking to Chaloner and Leybourn, and gave a bow that was intended to be insulting.
‘All the phanatiques together. What are you plotting this time?’

‘Your downfall,’ replied Leybourn bitingly. ‘I was just
about to explain to Tom how you send coded messages to criminals, telling them when to steal horses, so you can collect five
shillings when the hapless victim is obliged to advertise the loss in your nasty little newsbooks.’

‘It is a fascinating theory,’ drawled Muddiman. ‘And I wish Dury were here to hear it. However, I shall be sure to repeat
it in my next newsletter, so others can enjoy it, too.’

Chaloner was not surprised when L’Estrange’s sword was whipped from its scabbard, or when Leybourn struggled to do the same.
He drew his own and stood between them, wishing L’Estrange had stayed in the coffee house for just a few moments longer. He
had just missed a second night of sleep, and his wits were not as sharp as they should have been – he was not sure he was
alert enough to prevent the brewing skirmish by trying to reason with them.

‘I am no horse thief,’ snapped L’Estrange. He ignored Leybourn and lunged at Muddiman, furious when his blow was parried by
Chaloner’s blade.

Muddiman jerked into Leybourn, who promptly dropped his weapon in the water that lapped around their feet.

‘No?’ demanded the newsmonger, rashly provocative. ‘Then tell Heyden why you wanted Newburne’s death quietly forgotten. Dury
was looking into the matter for me, but you warned him
and
Heyden to leave the matter well alone.’

‘Of course I did,’ exploded L’Estrange. ‘Newburne died of cucumbers. There was no need for an investigation, because cucumbers
kill people all the time. I am a newsman, so party to this sort of information. I could name half a dozen people who have
died of cucumbers this year alone.’

‘And it did not occur to you that this is odd?’ Muddiman grabbed Leybourn and cowered behind him, as
L’Estrange brandished his sword and Chaloner tried to keep it from landing on someone. Leybourn was desperately scrabbling
around in the water for his lost weapon, and Chaloner might have laughed at the ludicrousness of the situation, had he not
been so tired or so worried about what might be happening in Smithfield.

‘Of course it is not odd. People die of peculiar things all the time. Besides, if you must know the truth, I was paying court
to Dorcus Newburne when her husband breathed his last, and I knew what Dury would have made of
that
– he would have said it was motive for murder. Damned phanatique!’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Leybourn, as he found his blade at last. It came out of the water like Excalibur. ‘And you, Muddiman? Why
did you order Tom not to investigate Newburne?’