The Butcher of Smithfield (44 page)

‘Malleable minds. It is fun to shape them. Why do you think I became a newsmonger?’

‘You said it was to make lots of money.’

Muddiman cackled. ‘Well, there is that, too.’

‘Hickes is following you,’ said Chaloner, looking to where the hulking spy was making a bad job of pretending to inspect some
sausages. ‘So who is watching Dury?’

‘I have no idea. We quarrelled today – because of you, in fact. I told him he should have taken firmer measures in Dorcus
Newburne’s garden, and he told me he is not that sort of fellow.’

‘Firmer measures? You mean such as killing me?’

‘It would have saved us a good deal of trouble, although we appreciate your Spanish reports. Why do you refuse
to help bring down L’Estrange? Surely you must see his venture cannot run much longer? People are already complaining about
the poor quality of his news, and I am offering you an opportunity to back the winning side.’

‘I prefer not to work against the government when I can help it. Spymasters have a strange way of regarding such activities
as treason.’

Muddiman smirked, an expression Chaloner found impossible to interpret. ‘My newsletters are better written, more informative
and more popular than the rubbish Williamson lets L’Estrange print. You are a fool to throw in your lot with them, when I
can make you rich.’

Wealth would do no one any good if his head was on a pole outside Westminster Hall, Chaloner thought, as he watched the newsmonger
slink away with Hickes on his heels. He turned his attention to Hodgkinson’s print-shop, where the crowd had dwindled to a
handful of crones. Like the costermongery next to it, water was trickling from under its door.

‘It is still in there,’ announced one old lady mysteriously, when he went to stand among them. ‘People do not believe us,
but we know what we saw.’

‘A body,’ elaborated another. ‘We spotted its feet, but then Mr Hodgkinson came and hauled it inside, so no one else got to
see it.’

‘It will have to come out eventually, though,’ said the first. ‘And when it does, we will call everyone back. Folk will see
we are no Bedlam-toms, seeing things that are not there.
We
are sane; it is the rest of the world that runs mad.’

Chaloner entered the shop. The floor was ankle-deep in water, and Hodgkinson, dirty, wet and agitated, was scooping it into
buckets. Lying on a bench, covered with
a blanket, was indeed a body. Chaloner pulled the cover away, and was shocked to recognise Giles Dury.

‘I have had a dreadful morning,’ said Hodgkinson wearily, flopping into a chair and wiping his face with his inky fingers.
He looked ready to cry. ‘Both my print-shops are flooded, I had to arrange for
The Intelligencer
to be published by my nephew – and he is charging me a fortune for the privilege – and then Dury chooses my premises in which
to die? I shall be ruined!’

‘I imagine Dury is none too thrilled with the situation, either. What happened?’

‘You can see the mess I am in, so when L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna came here to discuss the problem with tomorrow’s printing,
I suggested we talk in St Bartholomew’s Church instead. I must have forgotten to lock my door, because when I came home, there
was Dury – dead on my floor.’

‘Murdered?’

‘No! I brought all the broken guttering inside after it collapsed last night, to prevent it from being stolen. He must have
bumped into it in the dark, causing some to slip and hit him. What shall I do? Those harridans are waiting like vultures,
and I cannot carry him out when they are watching. One is sure to start a rumour that I killed him – and I never did!’

Chaloner inspected the body again. Dury had certainly been hit with something heavy, because his skull was badly crushed.
He glanced at the offending guttering, and supposed it might well have caused the damage. Of course, any other weighty implement
would have done the same, and there was no way of telling whether there had been an unfortunate accident or something else
entirely.

‘What was he doing here in the first place?’ he asked.

‘He must have come to spy,’ said Hodgkinson. Tears of frustration, self-pity and anger began to flow. ‘He and Muddiman are
short of material for their next newsletter, so obviously he came to poke about here, to see what he could find. It was certainly
his own fault, but what am
I
going to do?’

Hodgkinson was right to be worried, thought Chaloner. People would wonder why one of the newsbooks’ enemies should end up
dead on his premises. There was not much he could say to comfort the man, so he settled for advising him to contact the proper
authorities before his dallying really did begin to look suspicious. Hodgkinson had made a few half-hearted enquiries, but
no one had seen Dury enter his shop. People had remembered L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna arriving – and then leaving moments
later for the church – but Dury had apparently taken care to remain invisible.

Chaloner’s mind teemed with questions as he left the print-shop. Had Dury died in an unfortunate accident, or had someone
assisted him into his grave? Hodgkinson, L’Estrange, Joanna and Brome could not have harmed him, because they had all been
in the church together. Of course, it was possible to buy anything in London, including the services of assassins, so alibis
meant little. Or was the culprit Muddiman, because he and Dury had quarrelled? Or was Williamson taking measures against the
success of the newsletters? Chaloner was still weighing up the possibilities when Leybourn accosted him. The surveyor had
been waiting for him at the end of Duck Lane.

‘I do not recall telling Mary you were in the New Model Army, or about Spain and Portugal,’ he said sheepishly.
‘But I suppose I must have done. Please do not be angry with her for blurting it out.’

‘Well, we are even with our wrongful accusations now,’ said Chaloner. ‘Hers almost saw me attacked for being a phanatique,
and mine had her in the distasteful role of Newburne’s mistress.’

‘Do not worry. I did something that has soothed the hurt of your unkind words: I have made her the sole beneficiary of my
will. She will have my house, shop, books and mathematical instruments.’

Chaloner regarded him in horror. ‘What about your brother? Surely some of that belongs to him?’

‘Actually, it is all mine – we share the profits, but that was only ever a temporary arrangement. However, times change and
I have a wife to consider now. Rob will not mind.’

Chaloner suspected Rob would mind very much. With a sick feeling, he recalled Mary’s eagerness for Leybourn to fight L’Estrange:
she already wanted him dead. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’ he asked lamely, suppressing the urge to tell Leybourn he was a
damned fool.

‘Quite sure,’ said Leybourn. ‘You think she wants me for my money, but you are wrong. If she did, she would have left when
my sack was stolen. She will do anything for me, even asking you to break the law by stealing me a Gunter’s Quadrant. She
is a true friend. Here she is now.’

Chaloner saw Mary approaching – and L’Estrange walking in the opposite direction with a distinct bounce in his step. He was
appalled. Mary would not risk being disinherited for infidelity, so her obvious course of action would be to kill Leybourn
before she began wooing her
next victim. And as L’Estrange clearly represented a far more lucrative catch, Leybourn’s time was fast running out.

‘There you are, William,’ said Mary coolly. ‘Still keeping bad company, I see, despite my advice.’

‘He wants to apologise,’ said Leybourn. Chaloner blinked at him. He did not mind apologising to Leybourn, but he was damned
if he was going to do it to Mary. ‘Over what he said about Newburne.’

‘It is too late. He declared war on me, and I spit on his truce. Come, William. Mr Kirby is waiting for us near Mallard’s
Costermongery, and I want to confirm the arrangements for tomorrow’s dinner. He has agreed to tell Mr Crisp what time to come.’

‘Near where?’ asked Chaloner sharply. ‘Mallard’s what?’

‘I was not talking to you,’ said Mary icily.

‘Mallard’s Costermongery,’ supplied Leybourn. ‘You must know it. It sells excellent cubebs.’

‘Mallard’s? You mean Maylord’s?’

‘The Court musician,’ said Mary impatiently. ‘Some folk called him Maylord, but his cousin – who sold him the shop – referred
to himself as Mallard, so that is the name we continue to use. Apparently, Newburne cheated the poor fellow mercilessly. And
that
is the man you accuse me of seducing! You are a foul-tongued rogue, Heyden, and I hope L’Estrange runs you through one day.’

Clues were coming faster than Chaloner could process them, so he went to a grubby coffee-shop on Long Lane to think. The stench
of burning beans, the sewage-laden mud that had been tracked inside, and the ever-present reek of tobacco was so potent that
it made him nauseous.
He had no money to buy coffee, but he had information. When the proprietor greeted him with ‘What news?’ he offered some in
exchange for a hot drink and a quiet table. The owner was regaled with a detailed account of the plague that was raging in
Amsterdam, and the Dutch physicians’ prediction that it might soon break loose to afflict other major cities.

The coffee house was full of talk about the near-flooding of White Hall. One man was arguing the case for moving the royal
residence to Hampton Court, to be safe from such disasters, but most customers thought the King should stay where he was.
With luck, they said, he would be seized by the Thames and carried back to France where he belonged, and if a few courtiers
drowned on the way, then so much the better.

Chaloner sipped the hot coffee, feeling it sear his empty stomach and turn it to acid. He would not have drunk it at all,
had he not been so cold. He thought about his investigation. Maylord had owned a shop that sold cucumbers. Was that significant?
Had Maylord learned his wares featured in some peculiar deaths and
that
was the cause of his agitation? And had the killer then turned on him? Chaloner knew his first step should be to question
the people who worked in the costermongery. He abandoned the coffee house and retraced his steps.

‘We are closed,’ called Yeo, when Chaloner hammered on the door. ‘Come back—’

‘Does Thomas Maylord own this shop?’ demanded Chaloner, forcing his way inside. ‘You said last time I was here that the proprietor
was someone at Court.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Yeo, puzzled. ‘Originally, it belonged to Simon Mallard, but he sold it to his cousin, Thomas. Thomas never
came here, though. Not once.’

‘He had an aversion to greenery. He thought it gave him hives.’

‘That is right,’ nodded Yeo. ‘His solicitor, Newburne, handled the business for him, and Mallard received the profits at the
end of each quarter-year. After the September payment, Mallard claimed he was being cheated, and that the amount paid to him
should have been higher.’

‘Was he right?’

Yeo shrugged, but his expression showed he thought the answer was yes.

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Many questions relating to Maylord were now answered. Newburne had been defrauding him,
and during the process of exposing the solicitor’s dishonesty, Maylord had become frightened by something. He had appealed
to Chaloner for help when Newburne had been murdered, but two days later he had followed the solicitor to the grave. Then
Smegergill had become involved, and he had been killed, too. Yet although Chaloner had a clearer understanding of what had
happened, he still had no idea about the identity of the killer.

When he arrived home, he found a letter had been left for him at the Golden Lion. It was from the linen-draper, Richard Bridges.

Sir,

I am compelld to telle the Truth, becaus the lie sitts heavye on my conscience. Annabel Reade was more than cooke-mayde to
me; she lived as my Wyfe. When I learnd she was Marryed to Another, we argued and she was gone the next Day with sylver. The
constables sett after her, she was tooke to Hange. But Hectors compelld me to buye her Freedome. Synce then they have demanded
informations – mostly Gossyp from cofye-howses – and I Feare they
use the Intelligences for Theevery. I saile for Tangier tonyght, and there they cannot reach mee, althou you must Watche for
my hous and my Servants. Leybourn is a goode man, so save hym.

Yr servt Richd Bridges.

That evening, Chaloner sat in his attic trying to make sense of all he had learned. Rain pattered on the roof, which was leaking
in several places. He lit a fire with a log he had found on his way home, and attempted to review the new information, but
he was so hungry, he could not concentrate. He glanced up and saw three tails dangling off the mantelpiece. Sighing, he drew
his knife, supposing that what he had eaten during the wars was good enough for now. He skinned and filleted the rats, then
dropped them in a pot with the onion and sage from Dorcus’s garden. There was salt and dried peas in the pantry, so he added
them, too, along with the cucumber and the spices he had bought from Yeo.

While the concoction simmered, he thought about his investigations, although answers continued to elude him, and he was distracted
by the notion that Leybourn might be in grave danger. But eventually, a plan began to take shape, and he decided to implement
it the following day. He shot to his feet when he heard a noise on the stairs. It sounded like a lone man, coming openly with
no effort to disguise his approach. His dagger dropped into his hand when there was a sharp knock.

‘Heyden? It is Hickes. I need to talk to you. I came earlier, but you were out.’

Wondering what Williamson’s best spy could want, Chaloner opened the door warily, and gestured for him to enter. The cat came
to sniff at him, and Hickes picked it up, ruffling its fur in a way that made Chaloner relax
a little. Hickes would not be fussing over an animal if his intentions were too unfriendly.

‘This is nice,’ Hickes said, looking round appreciatively. ‘Cosy.’

‘The roof leaks, there are cracks in the walls, and the whole thing might tumble down at any moment,’ Chaloner replied. ‘Apart
from that, it is a palace.’