The Butcher of Smithfield (9 page)

It took him a long time to reach Leybourn’s home, because the streets were so badly flooded. He gave up trying to keep his
feet dry, and sloshed through the debris-filled puddles, some of which reached his calves. Thick, sucking mud gripped the
wheels of carriages and carts, so their owners had scant control over them, and in some places, they had been abandoned altogether.
One lay on its side, and a gang of men were stripping it of anything that could be carried away. Another had caught fire when
one of its lamps had been shaken loose by a violent skidding motion; vagrants clustered around, warming their hands in the
blaze. Through the flames, Chaloner could see a figure trapped inside, and did not like to imagine what the parish constables
would find when they came to clear the wreckage in the morning.

He dived into a doorway when several horsemen cantered recklessly towards him, whooping and cheering as they went. They reeled
drunkenly in their saddles, and one had a semi-naked woman perched behind him. A passing leatherworker grimaced in distaste
at the spectacle.

‘That was the Duke of Buckingham and his cronies.
Do we really want
them
playing ambassador to hostile foreign powers, or directing our country’s fiscal policies?’

‘Not for me to say.’ Because Spymaster Williamson was notorious for hiring spies to goad men into making seditious remarks
– it was the sort of activity that gave intelligence officers a bad name – Chaloner never indulged in contentious discussions
with people who accosted him on the street.

The man spat. ‘Was it for this that we cheered ourselves hoarse at the Restoration three years ago? Perhaps Cromwell was right
when he cut off the last monarch’s head. Have you heard the talk in the coffee houses? They say there has been a great rebellion
in the north.’

He moved away, leaving Chaloner wondering how the Court had managed to squander so much goodwill in such a short space of
time. He was thoughtful as he resumed his journey, considering what he would do if the country was plunged into another civil
war. His family still regarded the Parliamentarian cause to be a just one, but he had recently come to the realisation that
one government was pretty much as bad as another. They all comprised men, after all, with men’s weaknesses and faults.

Leybourn owned a pleasant three-storeyed building, with shop, reception rooms and kitchen on the ground floor, and bedrooms
and an office above. Chaloner had spent many peaceful hours in the large, steamy kitchen, listening to the surveyor wax lyrical
on some incomprehensible aspect of mathematics or geometry. The Leybourn brothers did well at bookselling, although Will was
beginning to leave more of the business to Rob, in order to devote time to his own writing.

Chaloner knocked on the door. Had Leybourn lived alone, he would have picked the lock and let himself in, but now the house
was shared with a lady, breaking and entering was no longer a polite thing to do. There was no reply, so he tapped again.
He could see shadows moving under the window shutters, so someone was in, and he wondered whether Leybourn was so angry with
him that he was declining to answer. He rapped a third time, and was about to give up when the door was hauled open.

A woman stood there. He supposed she was pretty, although there was something dissipated about her plump body and the sluttish
way she leaned against the wall. She wore a low-cut smock that revealed an ample frontage, and her cheeks were flushed in
a manner that suggested she had been drinking. When she leaned towards him, squinting in the dim light, he was sure of it.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

He smiled, eager to make a good impression on the person who now shared his friend’s life. ‘I have come to see Will. You must
be Mary.’

‘I am
Mrs Leybourn
,’ she replied tartly. Her expression was cold and angry. ‘I suppose you are Heyden? William said he expected you home any
day now.’

‘Is he in?’ Chaloner asked pleasantly. ‘I would like—’

‘No,’ she snapped in a way that made him question whether she was telling the truth. ‘Why? Have you come to borrow money?
He told me you never have any of your own.’

‘I have just come to spend an hour in his company,’ he objected, wondering what else Leybourn had said about him. He struggled
to maintain an affable mien,
fighting the urge to tell her that the purpose of his visit was none of her damned business. ‘It has been a while since we—’

‘He is out,’ she interrupted coldly. ‘You will have to come back another day.’

Chaloner could hear voices in the kitchen, and one definitely belonged to a man. If it was not Leybourn, then who was the
surveyor’s ‘wife’ entertaining when he was out? ‘I see.’

She moved quickly, blocking his view down the corridor. ‘I am busy at the moment, so I cannot invite you inside to wait. The
vicar of St Giles is here, asking my opinion about the altar decorations for Christmas. I am sure you understand. Goodbye.’

She closed the door before he could say whether he understood or not. He considered knocking again, and telling her that he
had considerable experience with altar decorations and was more than happy to grant her and the vicar the benefit of his expertise.
His second notion was to creep around the back of the house and look through the kitchen window. The vicar of St Giles was
unlikely to be talking to himself while Mary had gone to answer the door, and he wanted to know whether it was Leybourn with
whom he was conversing. But he was cold, wet and not in the mood for what might evolve into a nasty confrontation, so he started
to trudge back to his lodgings. He had not taken many steps when he saw a familiar figure – tall, stoop-shouldered and wearing
an old-fashioned hat.

‘I have been waiting for you at your house,’ said Leybourn in a rush. ‘I wanted to apologise for snapping at you earlier.
I have not been sleeping well, and Thurloe has become like an old woman of late, chastising me for
this and that. But I should not have taken my irritation out on you.’

Chaloner was relieved the spat was over. He took a deep breath. ‘I have been in Portugal since June. Spain, too, although
I went to spy, so the fewer people who know it, the better. I did not intend to be secretive, but it is a difficult habit
to break.’

‘I understand,’ said Leybourn, turning him around and beginning to walk towards his home. ‘I should not have tried to pry,
although I
am
a scholar, and curiosity comes naturally to me. Did you meet any mathematicians in Portugal? They are famous for their theories
pertaining to navigation.’

Chaloner heard the bleakness in his own voice as he spoke. ‘No, it was dreadful, Will – one of the worst assignments I have
ever been given.’ Leybourn looked sympathetic, so he added, ‘With the possible exception of a woman called Isabella.’

Leybourn gave him a manly nudge and grinned. ‘I knew it! I always envied your luck with ladies. But I have Mary now, and such
concerns are a thing of the past. I have told her a lot about you, and she will be delighted to make your acquaintance at
last.’

Chaloner held back. ‘It is late, and she may be busy.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Leybourn. ‘At least come and share a cup of metheglin with us. Have you ever tried metheglin? It is spiced,
fermented honey, and Mary knows where to buy it at its best.’ He flung open his door before Chaloner could decline. ‘Mary!
I am home, and Tom is with me.’

He strode along the corridor, heading for the kitchen. Chaloner heard chair legs rasp on flagstones as someone stood quickly,
and then there was a metallic click as the
latch on the back door was raised. Leybourn stumbled over a stool that had been left in the unlit hall, long legs becoming
hopelessly entangled as he struggled to extricate himself. Chaloner saw it had been placed there deliberately, to give the
occupants of the kitchen time to finish whatever it was they were doing before the surveyor walked in on them. Leybourn freed
himself eventually, and pushed open the door.

Mary hurled herself forward and clutched his head to her neck, giving him the kind of welcome that he might have expected
had he been away months, rather than hours. Wryly, Chaloner noticed that the hug also served to blind him, so he did not spot
the door to the garden closing surreptitiously. He wondered why Mary’s companions – at least two of them, as there were three
empty goblets in the hearth – should be so eager to escape without being seen. When she released Leybourne, leaving him somewhat
breathless, the surveyor turned to Chaloner.

‘This is Mary,’ he said, pride and adoration in every word.

‘
Mrs
Leybourn,’ said Chaloner, with a bow.

She regarded him coolly, then sat in the surveyor’s favourite chair. ‘I have been working hard today, and I am exhausted.
Fetch me a drink, dear William. Metheglin will do nicely.’

‘What happened to the vicar?’ asked Chaloner caustically. ‘Is he in the garden, exploring its contents with a view to claiming
his Christmas decorations early?’

Leybourn gazed at him in confusion. ‘Mary has been alone all day, sewing me new shirts. And why would the vicar be in the
garden? It is dark.’

Chaloner could see no evidence that shirts or anything
else were being sewn, but Mary had risen, and had gone to drape herself around her man. Leybourn smiled fondly as she told
him how lonely she had been, with no one for company, and Chaloner saw Thurloe was right: Leybourn was so besotted, he would
believe the moon was blue if Mary told him so.

‘I will hire you a female companion,’ offered Leybourn, going to the hearth and ladling something into three wooden cups.
Chaloner recoiled from the strength of the brew, and knew it would make him drunk if he downed it on an empty stomach. ‘A
maid would be useful, now two of us live here.’

Chaloner agreed, because Leybourn’s usually pleasant kitchen was sordid. Unwashed pots were piled on every surface, a bucket
of slops had been sitting so long that there was mould growing in the scum across the top, and the floor was sticky, making
him feel like wiping his feet on the way out. He was not the most assiduous of housekeepers himself, but at least he usually
scoured his dirty pans within a day, and he never left uneaten food on plates for so long that it rotted. The room was a disgrace,
and he was surprised his friend could not see it.

‘I do not want a companion,’ said Mary, rather too quickly. ‘You are soaking, poor love! Come and sit by the fire, and warm
yourself before you take a chill.’

‘I could eat a horse,’ declared Leybourn, allowing himself to be cosseted. ‘What do we have?’

‘Beetroot,’ said Mary, waving her hand in a gesture that indicated it might be anywhere.

‘I should be going,’ said Chaloner, backing away. He was also hungry, but not desperate enough to resort to beetroot.

‘Please stay,’ said Leybourn, although he spoke absently and most of his attention was on Mary. ‘I want to show you Christopher
Wren’s treatise on weather glasses.’

‘Another time,’ said Chaloner. He set the metheglin on the table. ‘It has been a pleasure,
Mrs
Leybourn.’

Early the next morning, Chaloner woke thinking about Leybourn’s infatuation with Mary. He supposed he should be grateful that
their union had not been sanctioned by the Church, because it would be easier to dissolve when – and he was sure it was only
a matter of time – Leybourn came to his senses and saw he could do very much better. What was Mary gaining from the arrangement?
The answer was obvious: a life of luxury with a man who thought she could do no wrong, gifts, and a home in which to entertain
when her lover was out. Chaloner could see exactly why she did not want her victim’s friends interfering with her business.

But the spy’s first duty that day was not Leybourn, but the investigation into Newburne’s death, which he would begin by visiting
L’Estrange on Ivy Lane. He found a green front-buttoned coat he had always liked, and a pair of loose breeches. It was not
the most fashionable of attires, but it was warm, functional and not too moth-or mouse-ravaged. His boots were sturdy and
good for walking, and Isabella’s hat would keep both sun and rain from his eyes. Having unimpaired vision was important
in his line of work, and although he did not expect the day to bring too many dangers – at least, not like the kind he had
recently endured in Spain – he was too experienced to be complacent.

The only thing to eat was a lump of dried meat from the last of his travelling supplies, so he soaked it in water until it
was soft. He offered some to the cat, which turned up its nose and went to sit in the window. It began to wash its face, and
a gnawed tail near the hearth told him it had acquired itself a fresher meal while he had been sleeping. The dried meat was
sadly rancid, and he supposed he should spend his last sixpence to lay in some essential supplies, although it would not buy
much and he did not like the notion of being totally penniless. He decided to visit White Hall and claim his back-pay as soon
as he had a spare moment.

It had rained heavily during the night, and dawn bathed the streets in a cold, grey light that turned the sodden buildings
to shades of brown and beige. It made the city look ugly, and so did the piles of manure, kitchen filth and rubbish that sat
at irregular intervals along the sides of the road, each glistening and slick with slime. Dogs and rats scavenged among them,
while kites and pigeons perched on the rooftops and waited their turn.

Ivy Lane was a narrow thoroughfare that ran north from St Paul’s Cathedral, and Brome’s Bookshop, in which L’Estrange had
his headquarters, was in the middle, near the junction with Paternoster Row. It was a large, well-appointed building with
freshly painted timbers and real glass in the windows. The first floor was L’Estrange’s domain – Chaloner could see him pacing
back and forth in front of a desk – while the attics comprised living accommodation for the bookseller and his family. The
ground floor housed the shop itself, a spacious chamber with neat rows of shelves.