The Butcher of Smithfield (21 page)

He stuffed documents and key in his pocket, intending to examine them later, certain they would shed light on why Maylord
had been murdered. Perhaps they would also explain why the old man had thought he was being cheated, and why he had spent
the last two weeks of his life in nervous agitation. Chaloner was just replacing the brick when he heard voices in the corridor
outside. He leapt to his feet and glanced around quickly. There was nowhere to hide: the bed was solid with drawers at the
bottom, and the chest by the window was too small for him to climb inside. There was a scraping sound as a key was inserted
in the lock.

‘Thank you, Genew,’ came a voice Chaloner had heard before. He flattened himself against the wall as the door opened. ‘You
are dismissed. Go downstairs and placate your mouse-eating patron.’

The landlord’s footsteps retreated along the corridor, and two men entered the room. The one at the front was tall and lean,
with an impossibly large nose. Chaloner deduced quickly that he was in charge, while the thickset, pugilistic fellow behind
was his henchman. When they started to talk to each other, he knew they were two of the three who had attacked him the previous
night – the henchman’s Scottish burr was unmistakeable, while the leader spoke nasally, as though he had a cold. Chaloner
stayed stock still, although at least this time he had surprise on his side.

The leader, whom Chaloner had dubbed Nose, looked quickly around the room, and his eyes lit on the soot that had been dislodged
when Chaloner had removed the
stone from the chimney. He swung round fast, reaching for his sword as he did so. Wasting no time, Chaloner felled the Scot
with a clip to the chin, then raced through the door and shot along the corridor. Unfortunately, he had not expected a third
man to be keeping guard at the top of the stairs. He cursed his stupidity. Of course there would be three, just as there had
been three the previous night. The man’s hand was tucked inside his coat, and Chaloner realised he was the one who had all
but lost a finger during their previous fracas.

The injured man braced himself as Chaloner thundered towards him, and the spy only just avoided the lead piping that flashed
towards his skull. It struck the wall and punched a hole in the plaster. He hit the man’s jaw when he was still off balance,
and followed it with a sharp jab to the neck. There was a howl of fury from Nose and the sound of running footsteps. Chaloner
took the stairs too fast, wincing when his weak knee twisted in a way that he knew would slow him down. He reached the second
floor, but sensed they would catch him before he gained the front door. And if not, then he could never outrun them on the
streets while he was limping.

Just when he was beginning to think he might have to stand and fight, a door opened and a well-dressed man stepped out, key
in hand. Chaloner darted towards him, shoving him back inside the chamber and closing the door behind them. The man opened
his mouth to object, but snapped it shut when he saw the dagger. Chaloner put his finger to his lips, and the man nodded,
terrified. The spy understood his fear, knowing how he must look with his unshaven face, old clothes and wild appearance.
Feet clattered on the stairs outside, and then there was silence.

Chaloner hobbled to the bed and indicated his prisoner was to sit next to him. The man complied, shaking almost uncontrollably.

‘I mean you no harm,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘May I wait here until the commotion is over?’

He held a knife, so his captive knew there was really no choice, but the polite request served to reassure nonetheless. ‘They
are Hectors,’ he whispered, desperate to appear helpful. ‘They used to visit Wenum, who was probably one, too.’

‘
Used
to visit?’ queried Chaloner.

‘He is recently dead, according to Landlord Genew. I am not sure how, but it was probably unnatural – Wenum was a sly man,
and he doubtless met a sly end. I never did like him. The skin rotted on his chin, which made him look like a leper. Oh, Lord!
He was not your friend, was he?’

Chaloner laughed at the fellow’s horrified embarrassment. ‘No. What else can you tell me about him?’

Relieved, the man hastened to oblige. ‘He spent very little time here, and used his room mostly for business, which is why
Hectors and other devious types were always queuing up to get in.’

‘So, Wenum is dead and Maylord is dead,’ said Chaloner thoughtfully. ‘It seems to me that the Rhenish Wine House is a dangerous
place to live.’

The man’s eyes went wide. ‘Perhaps I had better move, then, because I do not want trouble. Why do you think I always turned
a blind eye to Wenum and his dealings? When I realised he did business with Hectors, I went out of my way to avoid him, as
any sane man would have done. What have you done to incur their wrath?’

‘We had a disagreement about some property. Did Wenum know Ellis Crisp, then?’

‘Wenum knew
Hectors
; I have no idea if he knew Crisp. I almost met Crisp myself once, at a dinner for the Company of Butchers, of which I am
a member, but he cancelled last minute. I cannot say I was sorry. We did not really want him to join our ranks.’

Chaloner was confused. ‘You mean Crisp practises his trade without a licence from the relevant guild? I thought that was impossible
– and illegal.’

‘Normally, it is, but he just arrived in Smithfield and started work, and by the time we decided to take action against him,
he had accrued too much power to be stopped. He gives us meat merchants a bad name, especially regarding the alleged contents
of his pies. We asked him to attend our dinner, because some of our members thought he might mend his ways if we let him into
the fold. Personally, I am sceptical, and would rather keep my distance from the fellow.’

Chaloner suspected he was right to be wary, and thought the Company was naïve to imagine they could tame Crisp’s antics with
an offer of membership. ‘What about Maylord? Did you ever see Crisp visiting him? You were neighbours these last two weeks.’

The man’s face softened. ‘Poor Maylord. Something upset him badly before he died, which is probably why he moved here. It
did not save him though. Cucumbers got him regardless.’

‘Did you ask him what was the matter?’

‘He declined to confide. I cannot say why, but I was under the impression that someone owed him money and he was having trouble
getting it back.’

‘Did you ever see Wenum and Maylord together?’

‘No, but they must have passed the time of day when they met in the corridor. It would have been rude otherwise, and Maylord
had beautiful manners. I would be surprised if he had anything more to do with Wenum, though. Are you going to rob me? I do
not own much money, but you can have it.’

Chaloner stood. ‘All I want is your silence. You tell no one you saw me, and I tell no one we hid together. Then we will both
be safe.’

‘Agreed,’ said the man with palpable relief.

The Hectors were still searching for Chaloner, so he was obliged to leave the Rhenish Wine House carefully. He turned his
coat inside out to make it a different colour, and exchanged skullcap and hat for an old wig he discovered in his pocket.
It reeked of horse, and he could not for the life of him remember where it had come from, but he was glad it was there. He
scanned the street in both directions, then escaped by jumping on to the back of a cart filled with dirty straw. The driver
did not notice him until they reached St Giles-in-the-Fields, at which point he grabbed a pitchfork and threatened to use
it unless his passenger made himself scarce. Chaloner limped away, then made a tortuous journey that involved not only doubling
back on himself, but making use of one or two private gardens. Only when he was certain he had not been followed did he enter
Lincoln’s Inn and head for Chamber XIII.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Thurloe, opening the door to let him in. ‘William told me you have had some trouble. Come and sit by the
fire, and share my dinner.’

Chaloner could not remember when he had last eaten, and took more of the ex-Spymaster’s victuals than was
polite, although Thurloe was too courteous to draw attention to the fact. While they dined, he gave a brief account of all
that had happened.

‘The city was never this dangerous when
I
was Spymaster,’ declared Thurloe, shaking his head disparagingly. ‘Safe streets, low crime rates and a marked absence of
gangs are just a few of the advantages conferred by a military dictatorship, such as the one we enjoyed under Oliver Cromwell.’

At first, Chaloner thought he was joking, but saw from his wistful expression that he was not. He changed the subject before
they argued. ‘I am not sure what to think about Wenum’s notebook,’ he said, handing it over for Thurloe’s inspection.

‘You will have to tell L’Estrange,’ said Thurloe, raising his eyebrows as he flicked through it and saw the extent of the
betrayal. ‘Wenum is undermining the government by his actions. People say the newsbooks contain stale news, which means there
is a very real danger that they will founder – and from this ledger, I would say Wenum is largely responsible. You are duty-bound
to expose it.’

Chaloner was uneasy with that. ‘There are six sets of initials in Wenum’s book, one of which is probably Muddiman’s. What
will happen to him once Williamson learns what has been happening?’

‘I doubt L’Estrange will tell Williamson that one of his carefully vetted workers has been betraying him, so I imagine nothing
will happen to Muddiman. Wenum will be discreetly dismissed and the whole embarrassing business quietly forgotten. Government
officials dislike this sort of scandal.’

‘Have you ever come across Wenum?’

‘No. Muddiman ran the newsbooks for me during the
Commonwealth – and then until he was ousted in favour of L’Estrange a few weeks ago – but there was no Wenum on his staff.
L’Estrange must have appointed the fellow, as he appointed Brome. It is fortunate Brome accepted because he keeps L’Estrange
in check to a certain extent. He and Joanna may appear to be meek, but their quiet common sense acts as a brake to some of
L’Estrange’s wilder follies.’

Chaloner was more interested in the traitor. ‘My first assumption was that Newburne was the culprit, because of the law books
and Galen’s views on cucumbers. And from what I have been told, he was the kind of man to sell secrets to the highest bidder.
But instead it was Wenum.’

Thurloe was quiet for a moment. ‘Have you heard the rumour that says Newburne owned a small box filled with precious jewels,
and that he hid it before he died?’

Chaloner regarded him in concern. ‘No! Is it true?’

Thurloe shook his head. ‘I sincerely doubt it. The story began to circulate shortly after his death, but those sorts of tales
always proliferate when rich men die. Everyone loves hidden treasure.’

‘Well,
I
do not,’ said Chaloner vehemently. ‘Secret hoards nearly always bring trouble.’

‘I doubt Newburne’s will bother you unduly. I am fairly sure its existence is a myth, and I only mention it so you can consider
it as a motive for his murder.’

‘You just said it does not exist.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘But others may think it does, and be beguiled by the prospect of easy riches. You are slow today, Thomas.
It must be all that food you have just eaten.’

Chaloner was overfull, but his mind was clearer than
it had been when he was hungry. He turned his attention to another matter. ‘Do you have any paper? I would like to make a
likeness of Mary.’

Thurloe’s blue eyes gleamed. ‘Since you have more sense than to be dazzled by the woman, I assume you concur with me: that
there is something unpleasant about her, and you have a plan to prise her claws from William’s heart.’

Chaloner detailed Mary’s hostility towards him, especially their last conversation, as he sat at the table and drew what he
remembered of her face. ‘She made no effort to hide her real intentions,’ he concluded. ‘I will take her picture to Newgate
today, to see if the wardens are familiar with her.’

Thurloe watched the picture take shape, as Chaloner sketched first with charcoal and then with a pen. Proudly, he lent the
spy his Fountain Inkhorn, a newfangled device that carried its own supply of ink, but it had a tendency to blot, and Chaloner
soon reverted to a quill.

‘There is certainly something felonious about her,’ the ex-Spymaster said, going back to his fireside chair. ‘But I doubt
you will learn much at Newgate. She is cunning, and will have effected a disguise when she homed in on William. The guards
will not recognise her now.’

‘We will not know unless we try, and her unease of the law suggests something is amiss.’

‘What if you do prove she has a criminal past? She will deny it, and William might decide it is unimportant anyway. He is
utterly besotted by her. Did I tell you he claimed she was as fair as Aphrodite when he first introduced us? I do not think
his eyesight is very good. And she probably keeps the lamps low at night, to ensure he cannot see her properly.’

Chaloner laughed as he held up the finished drawing. ‘Have I captured her well enough?’

Thurloe inspected the work critically. ‘You should make her eyes smaller, and her mouth thinner. And how about putting a pitchfork
in her hands, and the devil whispering in her ear?’

Chaloner stood when he heard the clock chime three. ‘I should visit Newgate before dark. You say it will do no good, but I
cannot think of any other way forward.’

But Thurloe took the picture and placed it in his own pocket. ‘I still have a few contacts from the old days. Leave this to
me – and my heavy purse. Do not look dubious, Thomas. I was Spymaster General, if you do not mind. I can do this sort of thing
in my sleep.’

Chaloner was not so sure. Thurloe was excellent at theory, but fared less well at practical matters. However, he was right
in that bribery would be the most effective method of gaining information, and Chaloner supposed he should let him try.

Thurloe came to rest a solicitous hand on his shoulder. ‘You have hated prisons ever since that episode in France a few years
back. Why put yourself through the ordeal of a visit, when I can do it?’