The Butcher of Smithfield (18 page)

Smegergill gripped his arm. ‘You are a good boy, Frederick. I shall tell your father when I see him.’

‘I am Thomas, sir, and my father died years ago.’

‘So he did. During the wars, fighting for the wrong side, like me. I am a Royalist now.’

‘So am I,’ said Chaloner, beginning to have serious reservations about Smegergill’s potential as an ally. ‘Do you think Maylord’s
documents will be in his room?’

‘He would not tell me where he had put them – for my own safety, apparently. It will take a cunning lad like you to discover
where he hid these papers, though; I doubt a silly old man like me will have any luck. Where is the carriage that will carry
me home? We can ask the driver to take us to Maylord’s lodgings first.’

‘It has already gone. We shall have to hire another.’

‘Of course. But it is no good waiting here for one to come along, not at this time of night. We shall have to walk to Long
Lane. There are always hackneys in Long Lane, ready to take people home from the Smithfield taverns.’

Chaloner assumed he meant the brothels. ‘What about your hands? Greeting told you to keep them warm. Perhaps you should go
home, and leave me to—’

‘I am seventy years old,’ said Smegergill sharply. ‘And during that time I have learned how to look after myself. I may be
forgetful, but I am not stupid.’

Chaloner was startled by the sudden curtness, and supposed it was what Thurloe had meant when he had described Smegergill
as difficult. He mumbled an apology, then hastened to grab the musician’s arm when he started to stalk off in entirely the
wrong direction. He turned
him around gently, and began to ask questions, knowing it would be unwise to place too much trust in the old man’s memory,
but desperate enough to take intelligence from any source available, no matter how addled.

‘Was anything else worrying Maylord? Other than the contents of these documents?’

‘He thought he was being cheated,’ replied Smegergill as they walked. The streets were dimly lit by lanterns placed outside
some houses, but the rain-clouds blotted out any light there might have been from the moon. ‘Do you know Cromwell? He has
a discerning ear for music.’

‘How did Maylord think he was being cheated?’

‘He owned some property, although I forget what, exactly. He told me it was not making the sort of returns it should, and
was quite upset about it. Do you play the viol, Frederick? No! You said you play the virginals, like your mother. You see?
I am not as senile as you think!’

Long Lane was wholly devoid of hackney carriages, so they turned south, taking a short-cut to Duck Lane, which Smegergill
insisted would be teeming with coaches. They had just reached St Bartholomew the Great and its dark, leafy graveyard, when
the hairs on Chaloner’s neck stood on end, the way they always did when something was amiss. He stopped dead in his tracks
and listened hard.

‘Perhaps you should find the man who cheated Maylord over his property,’ chattered Smegergill, ‘They might have argued and
come to blows. Perhaps
he
stabbed poor Maylord.’

Chaloner drew his sword and pushed the musician behind him. Something was definitely wrong.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Smegergill. Alarm flashed in his eyes. ‘Is it the Bedlam men?’

Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about, and was more concerned about the danger lurking in the shadows, anyway. ‘The
what?’

‘The wardens from St Mary’s Bethlehem – the lunatic house,’ Smegergill gabbled. ‘Two Court musicians have been locked away
there recently, and I might be their next victim.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, most of his attention on the churchyard, because he was certain someone was hiding there. ‘You are
not insane.’

‘Neither were they. You will not let them take me, will you? The others were snatched on dark nights, just like this one.’

Chaloner silenced him with an urgent wave of his hand and took a step towards the trees. Then something struck him hard on
the jaw and his senses reeled. He fell to his knees and saw a stone at his feet; someone had lobbed it with considerable strength
and accuracy. He was vaguely aware of footsteps behind him and of Smegergill speaking, but the words were a meaningless buzz.
He tried to stand, but his movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, and he was powerless to prevent the sword being pulled
from his fingers.

Then he was dragged off the road and into the churchyard. He struggled, but too many hands were holding him, and he was dizzy
and disorientated. A kick to his stomach effectively quashed any further attempts to extricate himself, leaving him gasping
for breath. When someone started to go through his pockets, he supposed he was the latest victim of Smithfield’s infamous
Hectors. He was disgusted with himself, furious that common thieves had so easily bested a man of his experience.

‘Nothing,’ came one voice. Chaloner supposed his
purse had been found, and for once he was glad it was empty. ‘Except a cucumber.’

‘A poisonous one?’ asked someone else. He laughed nasally, as though he had a cold. ‘Make him eat it.’

‘Where is the old man?’ said a third man. His lilting accent said he was from north of the border. ‘He was here a moment ago.’

Chaloner made a mammoth effort to break free, and the dagger he kept in his sleeve slipped into the palm of his hand. One
man tried to grab it, but reeled back with a badly sliced finger for his pains. Chaloner had just staggered to his feet when
someone dealt him a powerful blow with a cudgel. It was hard enough that it would certainly have killed him, had he not been
wearing Isabella’s metal-lined hat. Even so, it knocked him flat, and he could not have moved to save his life. He heard more
voices, then there was a soft crack, as if a blow had fallen. Moments later, someone kicked him in the side, although not
very hard. It was followed by more footsteps and silence.

Chaloner climbed to his feet, wincing at the sharp ache in his head as he moved. It was pitch black in the churchyard, but
when he removed his hat, his probing fingers detected a substantial dent in the protective metal. The robbers would be astonished
to learn he had survived such a solid clout. He stood still for a few moments, willing the dizziness to recede, then began
to search for Smegergill.

It did not take him long to locate the old man. He tripped over him in the dark, where he was lying face-down in a puddle.
He hauled him up quickly, but Smegergill was already dead. Chaloner felt sick with self-recrimination. It was his fault the
musician had embarked on a futile search for a carriage in the dead of night, and then he had failed to protect him. He closed
his eyes, disgusted with himself. St Bartholomew’s was in Smithfield, and he had been listening to tales about the dangers
of that place all day. How could he have been so stupid? Furthermore, a man with his skills and experience should never have
allowed a gang of common louts to best him. He pulled the body into a faint shaft of light from the
road, and saw a cut on Smegergill’s lip. Had someone lobbed a stone at him, too, then pressed his face into water until he
had stopped struggling?

Recalling how he had been searched for valuables, he tried to locate Smegergill’s purse, and was surprised when he found it
still attached to his belt. It was empty except for a key. The thieves had also missed a heavy – and doubtless valuable –
ring that Smegergill had been wearing on his index finger. Chaloner did not intend to remove it, but it slid off into his
hand when he tried to inspect it. As he gazed numbly at it, he tried to work out what had happened. Sensibly, the robbers
had dealt with their younger, stronger victim first, so it was no surprise that Chaloner had been stripped of his possessions
immediately – or would have been, had he owned anything worth taking – before they had turned to Smegergill. So why had Smegergill
been left with his ring and purse? Had the felons been disturbed before they could finish? Chaloner had not heard a third
party arrive, but that was not surprising, given that he had been barely conscious at the time.

Nearby voices made him jump in alarm. Should he shout for help, or were the robbers returning to end what they had started?
His head pounded, and he doubted he would emerge triumphant from another skirmish. Of course, the voices could belong to people
who would help him carry Smegergill to a church and send for the parish constable. Unfortunately, though, he suspected they
were more likely to draw entirely the wrong conclusion from a man kneeling next to a corpse, and accuse
him
of the murder instead. He scrambled to his feet when a man and a woman stepped into the churchyard with a lantern, apparently
intent on finding a dry spot for a romp.

The man stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Chaloner, and his eyes were drawn to the still figure on the ground. ‘What
have you done?’ he cried, beginning to back away.

Instinctively, Chaloner donned his hat. It was partly to stop the light from lancing into his eyes, but also to conceal his
face. He could predict from the tone of the question how the encounter was likely to end, and did not want the fellow or his
lady to be able to identify him later. He had enough to do, without being obliged to prove his innocence for a crime he had
not committed.

‘He has a ring,’ shouted the woman. The fact that she had noticed such a detail in the dim lamplight indicated she was the
kind of person who would be more interested in what happened to Smegergill’s belongings than his earthly remains. ‘He is going
to steal it. Robbery!’

‘Murder!’ yelled her friend. ‘Call the Hectors! They will not like this!’

There was no point in Chaloner trying to tell his own side of the story, and the fact that the Hectors were going to be summoned
before the official forces of law and order did not bode well. People were beginning to rally to their howls – he could see
torches bobbing on the street. There was really only one thing to do. Chaloner turned and ran.

He blundered through the dark trees, branches clawing at him as he went. He tried to move faster, but was unsteady on his
feet and could not make the kind of speed he needed to escape. Meanwhile, his pursuers knew the lie of the land, and they
had lamps to guide them. They were gaining, and it was only a matter of time before they would have him. And then they would
kill him, because they would be inflamed by the thrill of the
chase, and he doubted they would be interested in listening to reason.

He was on the verge of turning to face them – he still had a dagger, and would not go without a fight – when he lost his footing
on the slippery ground. He started to slide downwards, wincing when he twisted his left leg, which had not been right since
it had been injured in the Battle of Naseby almost twenty years before. He landed with a splash in a deep ditch. He imagined
it usually ran dry, but that night it was swollen from the rain and a powerful current began to tug him towards a culvert.
He could have extricated himself without too much difficulty, but that would have put him in the hands of his pursuers, so
he let the water sweep him into a low tunnel. He stopped it from taking him too far into the darkness, because he did not
know where it went, and he had no wish to share Smegergill’s fate and drown. At the entrance, he saw torches bobbing as people
searched for him.

He held his breath when he heard dogs barking, but the rain and the stream meant tracking him was impossible, and it was not
long before the hunters’ determination to catch him wavered before the prospect of a fire and a jug of hot ale. He waded to
the entrance, checked the coast was clear, and scrambled up a bank that was thick with brambles. When he reached the road,
he turned up his collar and began to walk. He was cold, wet, his head and leg hurt, and he did not feel up to trudging all
the way home to Fetter Lane, so he headed for a haven that was considerably closer: Leybourn’s house in Monkwell Street.

He tapped on the door and leaned against the wall, feeling exhaustion wash over him. There was no reply
and the house was in darkness. He supposed Leybourn had gone to bed, and was on the verge of picking the lock to let himself
in when he recalled that the surveyor now had a wife who might not appreciate an uninvited guest at such an hour. He knocked
again, and eventually the door opened.

‘What do
you
want?’ came Mary’s disapproving voice. ‘It is close to ten o’clock, and decent folk are in bed. Have you no consideration?’

‘Who is it?’ called Leybourn, from the stairs. ‘Lord, help us, Mary! Have you actually opened the door? How many times have
I warned you against that? You will have us both slaughtered in our beds, because no honest men call at this hour of the night.’

‘That is true,’ said Mary, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘It is your friend, Heyden. He is drunk, and I do not think we
should let him in.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. His voice sounded hoarse and slurred to his own ears, so he did not like to imagine what Mary would
make of it. ‘Is the vicar of St Giles’s here again, fretting about his Christmas decorations?’ He winced when a lamp was thrust
towards him.

‘Christ, Tom!’ Leybourn sounded shocked. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Smegergill is dead,’ said Chaloner, aware that relief and tiredness were making him incoherent, but not really caring.

‘What is he talking about? Who is Smegergill?’ demanded Mary. She released a low screech of alarm when Chaloner pushed his
way past her into the house. ‘He is covered in blood! He must have killed someone. Perhaps he will kill us, too!’

Leybourn half-dragged, half-carried Chaloner through
the dark bookshop, clamouring for answers as he settled him next to the embers of the kitchen fire. Chaloner was simply too
weary to reply. He closed his eyes.

When Chaloner regained his senses, he was in Leybourn’s favourite chair. He looked around, noting that the kitchen was no
cleaner than the last time he had seen it, and that there was an unpleasant smell of burning. He jumped up in alarm when he
saw someone had covered him with a blanket and stoked up the fire – and that he was gently smouldering. He quickly patted
out the flames, wondering whether Mary had done it on purpose, to put him off making inconvenient visits in the future. It
was a draconian measure, but she struck him as a woman who did not do things by halves.