The Butcher of Smithfield
Read The Butcher of Smithfield Online
Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective
The Matthew Bartholomew Series
A Plague on Both Your Houses
An Unholy Alliance
A Bone of Contention
A Deadly Brew
A Wicked Deed
A Masterly Murder
An Order for Death
A Summer of Discontent
A Killer in Winter
The Hand of Justice
The Mark of a Murderer
The Tarnished Chalice
To Kill or Cure
The Thomas Chaloner Series
A Conspiracy of Violence
Blood on the Strand
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12454-1
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 Susanna Gregory
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
To Peter Carey
Smithfield Meat Market, October 1663
The solicitor Thomas Newburne knew he was not a popular man, but he did not care. Why should he, when he had everything he
wanted – a lovely mansion on Old Jewry, a pleasant cottage on Thames Street, cellars stuffed with fine wines, and more gold
than he could spend in a lifetime? He glanced at the man walking at his side. People liked Richard Hodgkinson, because he
was affable and good-hearted, but had his printing business made
him
wealthy, allowed
him
to buy whatever he fancied and not worry about the cost? No, they had not, and Newburne could not help but despise him for
it.
‘Let me buy you another pie, Hodgkinson,’ he said, making a show of rummaging in his loaded purse for coins. He was aware
of several rough types eyeing him speculatively, but he was not afraid of them. He was legal adviser to the infamous Ellis
Crisp, and only a fool would risk annoying the man everyone called the Butcher of Smithfield. Cutpurses and robbers could
look all they
liked, but none would dare lift a finger against the Butcher’s right-hand man.
‘I have had enough to eat, thank you,’ replied Hodgkinson politely. ‘It was good of you to invite me to spend a few hours
with you.’
Newburne inclined his head in a bow. Of course Hodgkinson appreciated his hospitality. Newburne was the ascending star in
Smithfield, and Hodgkinson
should
be grateful that the solicitor had deigned to acknowledge him, and spoil him with little treats. Of course, Newburne would
have preferred to be with his one true friend, a shy, retiring fellow by the name of Finch, but Finch was off playing his
trumpet to some wealthy patron, and so was unavailable. Newburne had not wanted to be alone that afternoon – it was much more
fun spending money when someone else was watching – so he had asked Hodgkinson to join him instead. It was a good day for
a stroll – the first dry one they had had in weeks, and they were not the only ones taking advantage of it. The Smithfield
meat market was packed, a lively, noisy chaos of shops, taverns, stocks and brothels.
‘My stomach hurts,’ Newburne said, not for the first time during the outing. ‘You said gingerbread would soothe it, but I
feel worse.’
Hodgkinson looked sympathetic. ‘You drank a lot of wine earlier, and I thought the cake might soak up some of the sour humours.
Perhaps you should take a purge.’
Newburne waved the advice aside; the printer did not know what he was talking about. ‘I shall have a bit of this cucumber
instead. Cucumbers are said to be good for gripes in the belly, although I cannot abide the taste.’
‘They are unpleasant,’ agreed Hodgkinson. He pointed
suddenly, and his voice dropped to a low, uneasy whisper. ‘There is the Butcher, out surveying his domain.’
Newburne glanced to where a man, hooded and cloaked as usual, prowled among the market stalls. Even Crisp’s walk was menacing,
light and soft, like a hunter after prey, and people gave him a wide berth as he passed. He was surrounded by the louts who
did his bidding, members of the powerful gang called the Hectors. They were another reason why no one tended to argue with
the Butcher of Smithfield, and even Newburne was a little uneasy in their company, although he would never have admitted it
to anyone else.
‘I am told he killed a man yesterday,’ he said conversationally to Hodgkinson. He smiled, despite the ache in his stomach.
The Butcher knew how to keep people in line, and Newburne fully approved of his tactics. It was refreshing to work for someone
who was not afraid to apply a firm hand when it was needed. ‘By that slaughterhouse over there.’
Hodgkinson swallowed uneasily. ‘I heard. Apparently, the fellow objected to the way he runs things. I suppose that explains
why Crisp’s shop is so full of pies and sausages this morning.’
Newburne nodded, glancing across to where the emporium in question was curiously devoid of customers, although everywhere
else was busy. He was never sure whether to believe the rumours that circulated regarding how Crisp disposed of his dead enemies.
Most of Smithfield thought them to be true, though, which served to make the Butcher more feared than ever, and that was not
a bad thing as far as Newburne was concerned. Frightened folk were easier to control than ones who were puffed up with a sense
of their own immortality.
Hodgkinson shuddered, and began to walk in another direction, away from the Butcher and his entourage. ‘Look! Dancing monkeys!
I have not seen those in years.’
Newburne took a bite of the cucumber as he stood in the little crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. He was beginning
to feel distinctly unwell, and thought he might be sick. He swallowed the mouthful with difficulty, and started to take another.
Suddenly, there was a searing pain in his innards, one that felt like claws tearing him apart from the inside. He groaned
and dropped to his knees, arms clutching his middle. He could hear Hodgkinson saying something, but could not make out the
words. Then he was on his back, in the filth of the street. People were looking away from the performing animals to stare
at him, although no one made any attempt to help. Hodgkinson was shouting for someone to bring water, but all Newburne cared
about was the terrible ache in his belly. He could not breathe, and his vision was darkening around the edges. And then everything
went black, and the printer’s clamouring voice faded into silence.
London, Late October 1663
A combination of chiming bells and hammering rain woke Thomas Chaloner that grey Sunday morning. At first, he did not know
where he was, and he sat up with a jolt, automatically reaching for the dagger at his side. The realisation that he did not
need it, that he was safe in his rooms at Fetter Lane, came just after the shock of discovering that his weapon was not where
it had been these last four months, and it took a few moments to bring his instinctive alarm under control. He lay back on
his bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, and forced himself to relax. He was at home, not working in enemy territory
on the Spanish–Portuguese border, and the bells were calling the faithful to their weekly devotions, not warning of an imminent
attack.
He pushed back the blanket and walked to the window. In the street below, Fetter Lane was much as it had been when he had
left the city back in June. Carts still creaked across its manure-carpeted cobbles, impeded that morning by the rainwater
that formed a fast-moving
stream down one side, and the Golden Lion tavern still stood opposite, its sign swinging gently in the wind and its sleepy-eyed
patrons just beginning to emerge from a night of dark talk and conspiracy. The recently installed Royalist government was
uneasy about the seditious discussions it believed took place in the many coffee houses that were springing up all over London,
but Chaloner thought half the country’s dissidents could be eradicated in one fell swoop if the Golden Lion was monitored
– and probably half its criminals, too. He did not think he had ever encountered a place that was such a flagrant haven for
felons and mischief-makers.
He almost jumped out of his skin when something brushed against his leg, and he reached for his knife a second time; but it
was only the stray cat that had attached itself to him on his journey home from Lisbon. He assumed its affection was hunger-driven,
until he spotted the remains of a rat near the hearth; the animal had evidently despaired of being fed and had procured its
own breakfast. It rubbed his leg again, then jumped on to the window sill and began to wash itself.
Dawn had broken, and people were walking, riding or being driven to church. Chaloner supposed he had better join them, not
because he had any burning desire for religion, but because he did not want to draw attention to himself with unorthodox behaviour.
After a decade of Puritan rule, the newly reinstated bishops were eager to assert the authority of the traditional Church,
and anyone not attending the Sunday services laid himself open to accusations of nonconformism. Like most spies, Chaloner
tried to keep a low profile, and aimed to do all that was expected of him in the interests of maintaining anonymity.
The travelling clothes he had been wearing for the last three weeks were tar-stained and stiff with sea-salt, so he knelt
by the chest at the end of the bed and rummaged about for something clean. He was horrified to discover that moths and mice
had been there before him, and that what had been a respectable wardrobe was now a mess of holes and shreds. It was not that
he particularly enjoyed donning splendid costumes, but his work as an intelligence officer meant that he was required to dress
to a certain standard in order to gain access to the places where he needed to be. If he went to the Palace of White Hall
– where the King lived and his ministers had their offices – clad in rags, the guards would refuse to let him in.
Eventually, he found a blue long-coat with silver buttons, knee-length breeches and a laced shirt that had somehow escaped
the creatures’ ravages. ‘Lacing’ was a recent – and to his mind foppish – fashion, and he disliked the sensation of extraneous
material flapping around his wrists and neck, but at least it provided convenient hiding places for the various weapons he
always carried. Over the coat went the sash that held his sword; no gentlemen ever left home without a sword. His hat was
black with a wide brim and a conical dome, and looked unremarkable. However, it had been given to him by a lady he had befriended
in Spain, and its crown had been cleverly reinforced with a skin of steel. In a profession where sly blows to the head were
not uncommon, he felt it was sure to prove useful.
He stumbled over a warped floorboard as he headed for the door, and a quick glance around the rented rooms he called home
– an attic chamber containing a bed, two chairs, a chest and a table, and an adjoining pantry-cum-storeroom – told him that
the subsidence he had first
noticed at Christmas had grown a lot more marked during the four months he had been away. A fire in the house next door was
to blame, and he was surprised the city authorities had not ordered his building to be demolished, too. The roof leaked, his
windows no longer closed, and there was a distinct list to his floor. He only hoped that if – when – it did collapse, he would
not be in it.
He walked swiftly down the stairs to the ground floor, the cat at his heels. He did not tiptoe deliberately, but stealth was
second nature to a spy, and his sudden, soundless appearance startled his landlord, Daniel Ellis. Ellis was standing in front
of a tin mirror, trying to see whether his wig was on straight in the dim light of the hall.
‘Lord!’ Ellis exclaimed, hand to his heart. ‘I did not hear you coming. I must be growing deaf.’
Ellis had been genuinely pleased to see his tenant return the previous evening. The speed of Chaloner’s departure – which
had barely left him time to pack a bag; he had actually missed the ship he had been ordered to catch, and had been obliged
to pay a riverman to row after it – had left Ellis with the impression that Chaloner might not come back. And there had been
rent owing.
Chaloner gesticulated upwards. ‘Did you know the ceiling in my room—’