The Butcher of Smithfield (6 page)

‘We clever spies know how to find a man newly returned to the city,’ said Leybourn smugly.

Chaloner ignored the fact that Leybourn was not really a spy – he only dabbled in espionage to help their mutual friend, John
Thurloe – and began to assess how he might have been tracked down. ‘You are wearing unusually fine clothes, so I surmise you
were one of the party of mathematicians who met the King today. Greeting was playing there, and he told you we had met. He
mentioned we had discussed Maylord’s death, and you made the logical assumption that I would visit his home.’

Leybourn grimaced. ‘You make it sound obvious, but it was actually an ingenious piece of deduction. I came as soon as I could
politely escape from the King.’

‘Why? What is the urgency?’

‘You disappear for months, without a word of farewell, and you want to know why friends are eager to see you? Thurloe said
you were gone overseas, but refused to say where, and I have been worried. Many countries boil with war and tension, and I
doubt whatever you were doing was safe.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ruefully. ‘It was not safe.’

Leybourn clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, I am pleased to see you home, and I have a lot to tell you. What do you think
of the newsbooks, by the way? Or do you prefer the newsletters?’

‘Do
you
read the newsbooks?’

Leybourn shot him an arch glance. ‘Why would
I
read anything penned by L’Estrange? All he does is rant about matters he does not understand, hoping to earn Williamson’s
approval and be promoted to some other post beyond his meagre abilities. However, his newsbooks
do
contain notices about stolen horses, which is something in their favour.’

‘You mean the advertisements?’ asked Chaloner, startled. In Portugal, such snippets were printed at the end of the publications,
in smaller type, but in L’Estrange’s journals, they were prominently placed between items of news, which lent them an importance
they should not have had.

‘Most people ignore L’Estrange’s pitiful excuse for editorials and
only
read the advertisements. For example, last Monday’s
Intelligencer
told me that one Captain Hammond was deprived of a dappled grey gelding near Clapham. Now that
is
interesting.’

‘It is?’ Chaloner wondered if Leybourn was being facetious.

‘Yes, for two reasons. First, it tells me Hammond is in town, which is good to know, because he owes me money. And secondly,
I am now aware that I must commiserate with him when we meet. There is a great yearning for news these days, you see – it
is a lucrative and booming business.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh, yes. These last few months have witnessed a burning desire to know what is happening at home
and
overseas. Of course, if you want real news, you must subscribe to Muddiman’s weekly letters.’ Leybourn tapped the handwritten
sheet in front of Chaloner with a bony forefinger. ‘He is a professional journalist, not a pamphleteer like L’Estrange, and
so can be trusted to tell the truth.’

‘You cannot trust L’Estrange?’

‘Of course not! He is the government’s mouthpiece, and only fools believe anything
they
say. But suppressing
the news is not his only talent. It is his job to censor – which he thinks means “macerate” – every book published, too. You
should see what he did to my pamphlet on surveying.’

Chaloner wondered what Leybourn could have written that was controversial; surveying was hardly a subject that would have
insurgents champing at the bit. ‘What did you do? Tell your readers how to build palaces that will collapse and crush unpopular
courtiers?’

‘It was almost entirely given over to technical calculations, and needed no editing from an amateur. But edit L’Estrange did,
and the result was an incomprehensible jumble that made me look like a half-wit. And I am not the only one to suffer. There
were six hundred booksellers in London a couple of years ago, but he fined so many of them for breaking his silly rules, that
there are only fifty of us left. His vicious tactics have put many good men in debtors’ prison.’

‘He is unpopular, then,’ said Chaloner, recalling how it was Newburne’s task to report wayward booksellers to L’Estrange.
It doubtless meant the solicitor – or ‘minion’ in the Lord Chancellor’s words – was held in equal contempt.

‘Very. He has gone into business with a fellow called Brome – using Brome’s shop as a base for his vile activities. Decent
man, Brome, although inclined to be spineless. I cannot imagine he is pleased with the arrangement.’

‘He cannot mind that much, or he would tell L’Estrange to leave.’

Leybourn snorted derisive laughter. ‘If he did, it would be his last act on Earth. Oh, I am sure Brome is making a pretty
penny from L’Estrange, but he will not be happy
about it. Money is not everything, after all. There is principle to consider.’

‘You seem to know a lot about the situation.’

‘People talk and I am a good listener. Why all these questions, Tom? I know one of L’Estrange’s toadies – a fellow called
Newburne – met an untimely end last week, but I hope you have not been charged to investigate
his
demise.’

‘Why should you wish that?’

‘Because no one was sorry when he died, and if he was murdered, then there will be a lot of men eager to shake the killer’s
hand. You do not want to be embroiled in that sort of thing.’

Leybourn’s chatter had unsettled Chaloner, and it brought home yet again the fact that the Lord Chancellor was not a good
master. Clarendon must have known about L’Estrange’s unpopularity, but had not bothered to mention it. The spy wondered whether
his initial suspicion had been correct: that the Earl was deliberately sending him into a dangerous situation to teach him
a lesson for ‘abandoning’ him.

‘We have not had a dry day since June,’ grumbled Leybourn, glancing at the sky as they left the Rhenish Wine House. ‘Will
you walk to the Westminster Stairs with me, to see the river?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘What for?’

‘It is the thing Londoners do these days. We have been near catastrophic flood so often, that we have all taken to gazing
at Father Thames in our spare moments, to assess his malevolence.’

It was not far, and Chaloner and Leybourn were not the only people to stand along the wharf. The tide was
going out, and the water was stained muddy brown from the silt that had been washed into it upstream. They watched a skiff
struggling against the current, but not even the encouraging cheers from the Westminster Stairs could give the oarsman the
strength he needed to reach the pier, and it was not long before he gave up and allowed himself to be swept back towards the
City. His fare would be obliged to walk or take a carriage to his final destination.

Leybourn sniffed at the air. ‘Can you smell cakes? There is a baker’s boy. Would you like some knot biscuits? I shall pay,
as Bulteel tells me you are no longer on the Earl’s payroll.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped Bulteel was wrong. ‘When did he tell you that?’

‘When you first disappeared, and he was describing the Earl’s fury that you had accepted a commission from another master.
Do you want to borrow a few shillings? You are welcome, but please do not mention it to Mary. She does not approve of me lending
money, not even to friends.’

Chaloner waved away the proffered purse. ‘Mary?’

Leybourn grinned. ‘My wife. I am the happiest man alive.’

‘You are married? Why did you not tell me at once, instead of gibbering on about newsbooks and flooded rivers?’

‘I was waiting for the right moment.’ Leybourn’s expression was dreamy. ‘I have been wanting a wife for years, because I like
the notion of permanent female companionship. Then, last July, Mary visited my shop, and it was love at first sight – for
both of us.’

Chaloner was delighted for his friend, not least because
Leybourn’s idea of charming a lady entailed regaling her with complex scientific formulae, thus giving her an unnerving insight
into how she might be expected to spend her evenings as a married woman. Few risked a second encounter, and Chaloner had assumed
that Leybourn was one of those men doomed to perpetual bachelorhood. ‘When can I meet her?’

‘I had better warn her first,’ said Leybourn mysteriously. ‘But you
must
promise to be nice.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise; his manners were naturally affable, and most people liked him when they first met, even
if his work meant they later revised their opinion. ‘I am always nice.’

‘On the surface perhaps, but you are often sullen and sharp. However, I do not want you to be
so
personable that she wishes she was with you instead of me. You can aim for something in between – pleasant, but no playing
the Adonis.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Chaloner, somewhat bemused by the instructions. He changed the subject before he felt compelled
to ask why Leybourn should be worried about his wife’s fidelity at such an early stage in their relationship. ‘Can you tell
me anything more about Newburne?’

Leybourn sighed. ‘So, the Earl
did
order you to investigate that particular death. I thought as much when you started to quiz me about L’Estrange and the world
of publishing. It is not fair: you are almost certain to get into trouble, given the fact that
everyone
despised Newburne.’

‘Why was he so hated?’

‘Partly because of his work for L’Estrange, and partly because he was so dishonest. A dangerous gang called the Hectors controls
Smithfield, and he was its legal
advisor. Combined, they made him rich – so much so that he was able to buy a fine house on Old Jewry. He was also accused
of being a papist, because he never attended church, but then it was discovered that he missed his Sunday devotions because
he was too drunk to get out of bed. Have you never heard the injunction, “Arise, Tom Newburne”?’

‘Is that what it means? My Earl said it was an obscenity.’

Leybourn laughed. ‘He really is a prim old fool! Did he tell you that Muddiman bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day
before Newburne died? And here you must bear in mind that Newburne worked for L’Estrange – the man to whom Spymaster Williamson
gave Muddiman’s job as newsbook editor. Do not tell
me
that is not significant!’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘If Muddiman did kill Newburne, then he was careless to let himself be seen buying the murder weapon.
Of course, that assumes it was cucumbers that killed Newburne. I know traditional medicine says they can be harmful, but they
are not usually considered deadly.’

‘Newburne died at the Smithfield Market, while watching the dancing monkeys. Lord! I wish your Earl had given you something
else to do. Newburne was loathsome, and only had one friend, as far as I know – a fellow called Heneage Finch. You can ask
him what he thinks happened to Newburne. He lives on Ave Maria Lane, by St Paul’s.’

Chaloner watched him eat the knot biscuits. ‘You are getting fat.’

Leybourn almost choked. ‘And you are thin – sallow, even. Did they not feed you in France?’

Chaloner smiled at the transparent attempt to discover where he had been. ‘Not very well.’

‘Mary prepares a wonderful caudle of wine, eggs, barley and spices. Unfortunately, that is all she can make, so we are obliged
to send to the cook-shop most days, and she does not like housework, either. But we are very happy together, despite her …
domestic shortcomings.’

She sounded singular, and Chaloner’s interest was piqued again. ‘When were you wed?’

‘We are not
wed
, exactly.’ Leybourn sounded defensive. ‘But we live as man and wife, because when you are in love, you do not need the Church
to sanction your devotion. You did not marry Metje, although she inhabited your bed most nights.’

‘I did not say—’

‘And I wager you availed yourselves of plenty of pretty … Danish ladies when you were abroad, too,’ Leybourn went on relentlessly.
‘Hoards of them, and not one escorted to the altar.’

Chaloner was taken aback by what amounted to an unprovoked attack. ‘Steady, Will,’ he said, ignoring the surveyor’s second
attempt to find out where he had been. ‘I am not condemning you.’

‘Everyone else is, though,’ said Leybourn sulkily. ‘Well? Tell me about your latest love. I know you have one. I can tell.’

Chaloner’s brief but passionate attachment to the lovely Isabella – a Spaniard working for the Portuguese – had been blissful,
but his false identity had been exposed when he had trapped the duplicitous duke, and he doubted he would ever see her again.
It was a pity, and he raised his hand to touch the hat she had given him, with its cunning bowl of steel.

‘Who disapproves of your arrangement?’ he asked, declining to talk about her.

Leybourn sniffed. ‘Thurloe, my brother and his wife, most of my customers. But I do not care. Mary may not be as pretty as
your Metje, but she is mine and she loves me dearly. You never have trouble securing yourself ladies, but it is different
for me, and I intend to keep this one.’

‘Then I wish you success of it,’ said Chaloner soothingly. He watched Leybourn fling away the last of the biscuits, which
were immediately snapped up by stray dogs. ‘And now I should pay my respects to Maylord before more of the day is lost.’

It began to rain as Chaloner and Leybourn walked from Westminster Stairs to St Margaret’s Church, a heavy, drenching downpour
that thundered across the cobblestones and gushed from overflowing gutters and pipes. It enlarged the puddles that already
spanned the streets, and Leybourn stepped in one that was knee-deep. Chaloner grabbed his arm to stop him from taking a tumble,
although the near-accident did nothing to make the surveyor falter in his detailed description about a new and ‘exciting’
mathematical instrument.

‘I would
love
a Gunter’s Quadrant,’ he concluded wistfully, ‘but it is too expensive for the common man. I offered to borrow one for a
few weeks and then write a pamphlet about it – I am well respected in my trade, as you know, and people take my recommendations
seriously – but its maker is adamant: no money, no measuring stick. Will you break into his shop and steal it for me?’