The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 12

There was a dull roaring in Chaloner’s ears, which gradually resolved into a single voice. He opened his eyes to see Leybourn’s frightened face looming over him, speaking indistinctly as though he was underwater. He sat up slowly, taking in the carnage around him.

Ellis Crisp was dead, lying on the far side of the room like a broken doll, and there were three other bodies, too. One was Treen, while Mary lay gasping at his side. Chaloner scrambled upright, and grabbed Kirby, who was in the process of crawling towards the door. But before the spy could stop him, Leybourn had dealt the felon a vicious blow with a skillet, which laid him out cold.

‘Mary set an explosion,’ said Chaloner hoarsely, thinking for one horrible moment that Leybourn might assume he was responsible. ‘She and her friends threw themselves to the floor to avoid the blast, leaving us sitting like ducks on a pond.’

‘I know,’ said Leybourn brokenly. ‘It took the near-demolition of my home and a close brush with death, but my eyes are open now. I struggled to keep them closed too long, and look what it brought.’

Chaloner was not sure what to say, so resorted to a practical analysis of what had happened. ‘Unfortunately, she miscalculated the amount of gunpowder needed, and she used too much.’

‘She added nails to her mixture,’ said Leybourn, shuddering when he saw what they had done to Crisp. ‘She must really have hated me.’

‘She did not hate you. She just wanted your money.’

Leybourn was not listening to him. ‘She would have killed you, too, if you had followed her orders and stood by the hearth.’

‘I should have known,’ said Chaloner, angry with himself. ‘There were slops under the stairs — not left for slovenliness, as I assumed, but because they are a component of gunpowder. She made her own, so no purchase of the stuff could be traced back to her. That is why she miscalculated. Powder is always unpredictable, but it is even more so when an amateur manufactures it.’

‘What was she thinking of? Crisp is dead, and so are some of his Hectors. Surely, that cannot have been what she intended?’

‘I suspect it was exactly what she intended. The explosives were in the pot over the fire, and Crisp was positioned to bear the brunt of it when it went up. So were you. I imagine she planned to have you blamed for Crisp’s death — you invited him to dinner for the express purpose of assassination. And to be doubly sure of success, she included poisonous cucumbers in her feast, too.’

Leybourn gazed blankly at him. ‘Why would she want Crisp assassinated?’

‘Because that is not Crisp.’ Chaloner put his fingers in his ears and shook his head in an attempt to stop them ringing. He saw Leybourn’s bemusement, and tried to explain. ‘That is to say he is Crisp, but he is not the underworld king. I have seen the Butcher of Smithfield walking about twice now, and this Crisp is too short to be him — and nor would he have the agile, soft-footed gait of the man I saw.’

‘I confess I was surprised when Mary introduced us. I knew he was Crisp, because I met him years ago, but the more we spoke, the more I thought that little fellow could never have ruled Smithfield.’

‘Someone took his identity and turned him into something he is not. Also, Crisp claimed he did not like music, but the horse stealing is based entirely on music. He would not have made that comment, had he been the real Butcher.’

Leybourn still looked as though he had no idea what Chaloner was talking about, and it was a testament to his shock that he looked as though he did not care, either. ‘So, who is the Butcher? One of the Hectors, who rose through the ranks and decided to succeed to the whole operation?’

‘I imagine we will find out when this Crisp is declared dead, and his successor steps forward to take his place.’

‘But who?’ pressed Leybourn. ‘Ireton is a cunning fellow; Kirby is stupid but strong.’

Ireton’s position against the far wall had allowed him to flee the carnage, and Chaloner wondered whether he had gone to rally his forces — perhaps to march on Leybourn’s house and accuse him or murder. If so, then he would be doing it without help from Mary. She had left herself too close to the blast, and Chaloner had seen enough battlefield wounds to know she was unlikely to survive. He knelt next to her, but could tell from her eyes that she had been blinded by the flash, and could not see him.

‘Crisp said only people near the fire would die,’ she whispered. She sounded indignant. ‘He lied.’

Chaloner regarded her askance. ‘Crisp told you how to kill him?’

Her expression hardened. ‘Go away, Heyden. Why did you have to survive? You should be dead, along with your pathetic friend.’

Chaloner glanced at Leybourn, but the surveyor was wandering around the remains of his kitchen, and was not listening. He showed no inclination to be at his lover’s side during her last moments.

‘Crisp told you how to kill him?’ Chaloner asked again.

She smiled, and there was blood on her teeth. ‘You want to talk? Very well. He did not tell us how to kill him — he told us how to make powder and set an explosion that would only kill selected victims. He was fond of theories, but he was not a practical man.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ Chaloner knew why she was deigning to speak to him: she was hoping to keep him occupied until one of her cronies rallied, at which point he would be killed. Because she could not see, she did not know her accomplices were either dead or had fled.

‘We picked that pathetic, grinning little man — Ellis Crisp — and we built a legend around him. It worked for a while, but it is becoming difficult to maintain the illusion, and the real Butcher wants to claim the kingdom he has forged. So, we decided to kill Crisp in a spectacular way — one in keeping with the flamboyant character we have created for him. And as there are a few Hectors I dislike, I decided to get rid of them, too, as well as our surveyor friend.’

‘How did you keep the real Crisp from the public eye? Lock him in a dungeon with plenty of books?’

‘In a country house, visited only by his father.’

‘Who is Crisp’s successor?’

‘Someone who will make us rich. We communicate by music, but we have never met. We shall call him Crisp when he takes his throne. The creature I killed tonight does not deserve the name.’ She shifted slightly and blinked, trying to see how much longer she needed to talk.

‘Will you tell me about the horses?’

She swallowed. ‘Some we returned for the reward; some we sold. It was all carefully planned, so no one would be suspicious. And no one is. Everything is working perfectly. Newburne tried to take more than his due, but he learned what happens to disloyal people. He was quietly poisoned.’

‘Like your husband — Valentine Pettis? And Colonel Beauclair? And James Hickes?’

‘Hickes was getting too inquisitive, and he acquired some of our music from Finch. Meanwhile, Val tried to do business at Crisp’s expense, and I never cared for him anyway. I wanted to marry Jonas — and I did. Why do you think I could not wed William?’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘Murder, theft and extortion are all right, but bigamy is not?’

‘It would have meant lying in church, and I have my scruples.’ She blinked again, still trying to clear her vision. ‘The Butcher is a genius, so do not think you can defeat him.’

‘And the horses?’

‘Beauclair returned home unexpectedly when we went to steal his stallion, so Ireton made him eat lozenges. We took his body to White Hall in a sedan-chair. The carriers promised to keep quiet, but who takes unnecessary risks? They were given lozenges, too. The Butcher ordered us to leave cucumbers with them all, so their deaths would be deemed natural. He has a talent for deception.’

‘He certainly does,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘Where is he now? I would like to meet him.’

Her hissing laugh was distinctly malevolent. ‘Oh, you will, Heyden. You will.’

People had been awoken by the explosion, and were massing outside. The parish constable arrived, but promptly disappeared when he saw several of the victims were Hectors, and so did some of the onlookers. Then soldiers came, and placed everyone under arrest until they were satisfied with the stories they were being told. The government did not like gunpowder in the hands of private citizens, being of the belief that its only use was for armed rebellion. Chaloner chafed at the ponderous questions put by a thickset sergeant. Every moment spent repeating himself was another moment for Crisp to assume his mantle of power, and Chaloner had the sense that unless he struck before the man was fully enthroned, he might never have another chance.

‘I have to get away,’ he said urgently to Leybourn, when the sergeant had gone to see whether there really was a cat in an upstairs bedroom. ‘We are wasting time here.’

‘You knew from the start,’ said Leybourn softly. His face was grey with shock, and he looked away when Mary’s body was carried past. ‘As soon as you set eyes on her, you saw something I did not.’

Chaloner glanced at the door, and wondered if he could disappear into the darkness before the guards outside opened fire. ‘You are not the only one she deceived. Bridges had a similar experience.’

‘Do you think she really does own a house near Uxbridge?’ asked Leybourn. ‘If so, and it is proven to be mine, I shall give it to you.’

‘I do not want it,’ said Chaloner in distaste. ‘Besides, I suspect Kirby might have something to say about that. He is her real husband.’

‘He is dead. I hit him on the head with a pan.’

‘Unfortunately, he recovered and is now at large. The only way we shall catch him is by going after the Butcher. Of course, we have no idea who the Butcher is, or where to find him, but find him I must. He killed Newburne. Mary told me.’

‘I will help,’ offered Leybourn. ‘And when we locate him, I shall put a ball in his black heart.’

‘Crisp did not order Mary to prey on you,’ warned Chaloner, knowing exactly why the surveyor wanted to meet the Butcher of Smithfield. He smiled when the sergeant handed him his cat; it did not seem any the worse for its experiences. ‘That was her own idea — her way of earning a living.’

‘No, they were in it together,’ said Leybourn bitterly. ‘Ireton, Kirby and Treen were always visiting, and I believed her when she said they were her cousins.’

‘Did you?’ asked Chaloner, wondering how he could have been so gullible. ‘How did they explain bringing my cat to your house?’

‘I did not know you had a cat,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘You are far too secretive to reveal such a personal detail, remember? And I am going with you when you challenge the Butcher, no matter what you say. I am sure it was he who put her up to hurting me.’

‘You cannot come if you intend to murder him,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘That would not be helpful. And such recklessness is likely to see us both killed, anyway. If you will not go to stay with your brother tonight, then I will take you to Lincoln’s Inn.’

Leybourn glared at him. ‘Thurloe will help me bring down the Butcher’s evil empire. You can go to the Devil!’

He stamped to the far side of the room, and Chaloner put his head in his hands in despair when the sergeant sat at the kitchen table and took a pen in one of his heavy hands. He was going to write a statement, and judging from the way his tongue poked out when he concentrated, it was going to take a very long time. Casually, the spy walked to the hearth, and removed from his pocket the bottle of oil Hickes had given him. Surreptitiously, he dropped it into the still-glowing embers of the fire.

It was not a huge blast, although it would certainly have maimed anyone using it in a lamp, but it had the desired effect. Yelling that there were probably more explosions in the offing, to cause enough panic to cover his escape, Chaloner grabbed his cat and ran. He reached the end of Monkwell Street and headed south. He was not pleased when he glanced behind him and saw Leybourn hard on his heels. He did not have time for him — not until the Butcher was eliminated.

Trusting Thurloe to ply the surveyor with enough wine to render him insensible for the night — the ex-Spymaster would not want him racing around London like an avenging angel, either — Chaloner hired a carriage to take them to Chancery Lane. They did not get far. The back wheels caught in a rut, and then the whole thing became bogged down in mud. They walked to the Holborn Bridge, which groaned and shuddered as the Fleet River roared underneath it. Warily, they started to cross, but a large tree was being borne downstream, and it crashed into the structure before they were halfway over. Part of the balustrade was carried away, so Chaloner grabbed Leybourn’s arm and hauled him back the way they had come. The guard promptly declared it closed until the flood had abated.

‘We shall have to use the Ludgate bridge,’ said Chaloner, determined to see Leybourn in Thurloe’s care that night.

‘Closed since dusk,’ said the guard. ‘And the one at Bridewell is washed away altogether.’

‘What about the two upstream?’ asked Chaloner, seeing Leybourn brighten.

‘I saw both float past in pieces about an hour ago. You will have to stay in the city for the night, although it will not be easy. Every inn is full, because lots of people are stranded.’

‘You have no choice now, Tom,’ said Leybourn grimly. ‘You cannot foist me on Thurloe. You cannot even deposit me in Temperance’s brothel, because the Fleet stands between us. And I am sure you do not want me wandering Smithfield alone. You have no alternative but to let me help you. So, what shall we do first?’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, standing calf-deep in floodwater with a cat in his arms and a friend determined to avenge himself on the man he needed to question. ‘This is turning into a difficult night.’

Leybourn drew his sword. It stuck halfway out, and the extra tug he needed to free it from its scabbard forced Chaloner to jump back. ‘The Butcher will be sorry he ever meddled with me.’

‘He may not be alone,’ said Chaloner unhappily.

* * *

Because Leybourn had a waterproof coat, Chaloner persuaded him to carry the cat, on the grounds that it would keep the animal dry. It did not occur to the surveyor that an armful of moggy would also slow him down and prevent him from racing into a situation that might see him killed. Before that, Chaloner had seriously considered hitting him on the head and leaving him in an alley, but water was gushing everywhere, and he was afraid he might drown. Reluctantly, he conceded the surveyor was right: there was no choice but to accept his ‘help’ and hope for the best. While they walked, he told him all he had learned about the murders.

‘So,’ said Leybourn when he had finished. There was a cold, flat light in his eyes that said he was going to be dangerous company. ‘Where first? How will we unmask this evil Butcher — a man who has been so careful to keep his face concealed that no one knows what he looks like?’

‘He is someone fit and agile — someone who moves with feline stealth.’

‘L’Estrange? He moves with feline stealth, especially when he is in pursuit of a woman. You should have seen him stalk Mary earlier …’ He trailed off.

‘I am sorry Will,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I know she was dear to you.’

‘She could not cook, though. My ideal woman must be able to cook.’ Leybourn took a deep breath and changed the subject. ‘You must have other theories about the Butcher’s identity. A stealthy tread is not much on which to accuse L’Estrange.’

‘What about Hodgkinson as the culprit? Both Hickes and Thurloe say he is dangerous — that his pleasant façade is a ruse.’

‘Well, there you are, then. Hodgkinson. He works for L’Estrange and Muddiman, so he obviously has no conscience. And now he is missing. Perhaps the reason he is ‘missing’ is because he knows his predecessor is due to die in an accident, and he needs to be ready to take his throne.’

It was good logic, especially in light of what Nott had told Chaloner earlier. ‘You may be right, Will. I learned this evening that he bought the book on cucumbers I saw in Wenum’s room. He is definitely involved in something sinister.’ He broke into a trot, heading for the Thames Street print-house.

Leybourn tried to stop him. ‘He will not be there. He will be at his Smithfield shop, which lies at the heart of the domain over which he is about to assume control.’

‘I am sure of it — especially as the Thames is on the verge of flooding again, and only a fool will want to be near the river when that happens.’

‘Then why are you going the wrong way?’

‘We need solid evidence to convict him, but all we have is supposition and theory. It is a good time to search his main lair. So I will look, while you keep watch and make sure he does not catch us.’

‘All right,’ agreed Leybourn, albeit sulkily. ‘But if he appears, I will fight him.’

Thames Street was now more the domain of its namesake than of the land, and Chaloner and Leybourn ploughed through water that was well past their knees. A candlelit boat rocked its way up the black waters in the opposite direction, and Chaloner did not like the way familiar sights were being turned on their heads by the deluge.

‘Perhaps I should find a second cat,’ grumbled Leybourn as they paddled towards the dark mass of Baynard’s Castle. ‘Then we would have two, and I could pretend to be Noah.’

They reached the print-house, which looked dark and forbidding amid the flood waters.

‘Stand in that doorway and keep a tight hold of my cat,’ ordered Chaloner, prepared to resort to devious means to keep Leybourn’s hands occupied. ‘If anyone comes, whistle. No fighting — you may tackle the wrong person, and we have to be sure before we attack.’

Leybourn stepped into the alcove Chaloner indicated. ‘Go on, then. And when you are finished, we will go to Smithfield, and assault this den of thieves — like crusading knights against the infidel.’

Chaloner had a vague memory that most of the crusades had ended in disaster, and hoped Leybourn’s words would not prove to be prophetic. He picked the print-house lock and stepped inside. The basement was a black, deserted cavern full of peculiar groaning creaks, as if water had seeped into its very foundations and rendered them unstable. Sloshing sounds indicated the Thames was already bubbling into it. He lit a lamp and saw the great presses standing in a lake of dirty water that rippled softly in the waves made by his feet. Bales of paper had been suspended from the ceiling in rope nets, and all written records had been removed, to save them from the impending flood. Chaloner was about to leave empty-handed, when he saw something had been left on the press nearest the door. It was the little box containing Newburne’s jewels, apparently abandoned.

The spy stood still and listened hard, but the only sounds were those of water. A rat swam across the room, heading for the door, leaving a v-shaped trail of ripples in its wake. Chaloner opened the box, expecting to find it empty because the locks had been smashed. Therefore, he was astonished to see the gems still glittering within it.

‘Step away and put your hands in the air,’ ordered Hodgkinson, emerging from behind the largest of his presses. He held a gun in his right hand, which he was shielding from the wet with his left. Chaloner did as he was told, hoping Leybourn would not hear their voices and come to investigate.

‘What are you doing with Newburne’s hoard?’ he demanded. He was not really in a position to interrogate the printer, given that he was not the one holding the dag, but the box was the last thing he had expected to find in the print-house and he was hopelessly confused. ‘And what are you doing here?’

‘Where else would I be?’ snapped Hodgkinson. ‘I had a feeling villains would come to see what they could steal while my premises were underwater.’

‘I am not here to steal,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Unlike you, it seems. I repeat: how did you come by Newburne’s treasure?’

Hodgkinson kept the gun trained on Chaloner’s chest. His face was shadowed, and the spy could not see it well enough to read its expression. ‘I knew where he hid it — I saw it once, when I visited his house. And I also knew someone recently dug it up to look at it. So, I retrieved it and brought it here. I should have guessed you were the one who tampered with it when L’Estrange told me about your strange behaviour in Dorcus’s garden. He did not understand it at all, but now I do.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

‘It is really very simple: you are Newburne’s killer. You have been pretending to investigate, but all the time you are the guilty party. I am shocked, because I thought you were honest. You gave me back my silver pen, but you are a thief and a killer.’

Chaloner’s mystification increased. ‘What?’

Hodgkinson sighed impatiently. ‘Everyone knows about Newburne’s treasure, and it is obvious that someone murdered him in order to steal it — to visit all his houses and search them one by one.’

‘But I was not even in the country when he died. I was on a ship, travelling home from Portugal.’

‘I do not believe you. As soon as L’Estrange mentioned your peculiar conduct in the garden, I went straight to the cellar and saw how someone had dragged a barrel over the place where the gems were hidden. The culprit — you — knew exactly where to look.’

‘Yes, I did. However, I think Crisp killed Newburne, although the original Crisp has just been dispatched in an explosion. Whoever steps forward to claim his kingdom will be the real villain.’ Chaloner shrugged. ‘I assumed it was you.’

‘Me?’ Hodgkinson was indignant. ‘How dare you!’

‘Do not believe him, Hodgkinson,’ came a voice from the shadows. Chaloner had sensed another person hiding there, but was shocked — and dismayed — to see Brome emerge. The bookseller also held a gun, although his hand shook and he looked acutely uncomfortable. He had, however, a far better weapon than the one Joanna had lent Chaloner. ‘He is lying.’

Chaloner tried to reason with him, his thoughts tumbling chaotically as he struggled for answers. ‘Please put the gun down, Brome. You know I am no danger to you — we resolved that last night.’

‘That was before I learned you went after the jewels,’ said Brome unsteadily. ‘Hodgkinson was right.’

‘There are serious flaws in his logic,’ said Chaloner to Brome, trying not to sound desperate. While he wasted time trying to convince them of his innocence, the Butcher was stepping ever closer to his new throne. He saw now that Hodgkinson was not the culprit, because he would not have spent half the night loitering in his flooded basement if he were — he would have had more important matters to attend. ‘There is no reason to assume that whoever killed Newburne also knew where he kept his treasure.’

Hodgkinson sneered. ‘He is trying to confuse us, to worm his way out of my trap. If he had eaten that cake I sent him-’

‘You tried to poison me?’ exclaimed Chaloner. ‘Did you send Hickes the exploding oil, too?’

Brome glanced uneasily at the printer. ‘What is he talking about?’

Hodgkinson started to deny the accusation, but then shrugged, exasperated. ‘Heyden keeps asking us awkward questions. He always seems hungry, so I sent him something to keep him quiet.’

Brome’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘But it is his duty to ask questions! We have nothing to hide — not now he knows about my pamphlet. He can ask whatever he likes, as far as I am concerned.’

‘And the oil?’ asked Chaloner.

Hodgkinson shook his head firmly. ‘I know nothing about any oil, and why would I want to harm Hickes? Muddiman said he had him under control.’

‘Did you hear that?’ said Chaloner to Brome. ‘Why would Muddiman make such a comment to Hodgkinson, unless they were in league together? It is revealing, and should tell you how Muddiman lays hold of L’Estrange’s news — or some of it, at least. Do you remember the ledger I showed you, which contained details of sales written by one Wenum? Well, Wenum is Hodgkinson.’

‘Lies!’ spat Hodgkinson. ‘It was Newburne. Tom Newburne and Nobert Wenum are the same name — the same letters arranged in a different order.’

‘You made a mistake,’ Chaloner went on. ‘You wanted to read about cucumbers so you bought a book by Galen. It was in “Wenum’s” room in the Rhenish Wine House. Unfortunately, Wenum did not buy the book: you did. Nott told me.’

‘Hearsay,’ snapped Hodgkinson. ‘And I-’

‘Wenum’s neighbour talked about his scarred jaw,’ Chaloner continued, ‘but Newburne’s face was unblemished. Remove your false beard, Hodgkinson, and show Brome what lies beneath.’

Furious, Hodgkinson pulled the trigger. Chaloner ducked instinctively, but there was a resounding click and no more — the powder was damp. Taking advantage of the printer’s brief moment of surprise, Chaloner made a grab for his beard, while at the same time trying to prevent him from hauling a second dag from his belt. The hair came off in the spy’s hand, but Hodgkinson managed to draw his weapon.

‘Stop!’ yelled Brome, brandishing his own gun wildly. ‘Stand away from each other. At once!’

Chaloner complied, afraid the bookseller might shoot him just because he was agitated and afraid. Meanwhile, Hodgkinson’s free hand was pressed to his ravaged face. His expression was murderous, and Chaloner braced himself, sure the man was going to kill him where he stood. But the printer lowered the weapon.

‘No.’ His voice shook with rage, but he was holding himself in control. ‘I want answers before you die. How did you know about my skin?’

Brome gaped in shock: Hodgkinson’s response was a clear admission of guilt.

‘Because you wore a darker beard to Newburne’s funeral,’ explained Chaloner. ‘I assumed you had blackened the real one as part of your funeral attire, but you had actually donned a completely different hairpiece. I was a fool not to have understood its significance straight away.’

‘You are Wenum?’ asked Brome unsteadily. ‘You have been betraying us?’

His accusatory tone drove Hodgkinson to greater anger. The gun came up, and Chaloner hurled himself behind one of the presses.

‘All right,’ snarled the printer, moving to get a clear shot. ‘I am Wenum, although I constructed my character in a way that meant Newburne would be blamed. I even kept a few law books in the Rhenish Wine House, should anyone ever search it. And why not? He was corrupt, anyway.’

Desperately, Chaloner tried to make Brome see who was the enemy. ‘It meant that when Newburne died, “Wenum” had to disappear, too. Hodgkinson was forced to abandon the Rhenish Wine House and spin a tale about Wenum throwing himself in the river. To confuse matters further, he started a rumour that Wenum was a victim of Mary Cade.’

Hodgkinson sneered, crouching with the firearm clutched in both hands as he pointed it towards where he thought Chaloner was hiding. ‘What choice did I have? Men like you were prying into affairs that were none of their concern, spoiling everything.’

‘Hickes believed your tales, and so did Spymaster Williamson, which is why they never looked very closely at Wenum — a man they believe to be dead.’

‘Put down the gun, Hodgkinson,’ said Brome quietly. ‘Selling L’Estrange’s news to Muddiman was dishonest and stupid, but when we explain-’

‘No,’ grated Hodgkinson. ‘L’Estrange will not appreciate that printing is a hard business and that profits must be made where they can. He will accuse me of being a phanatique.’

Brome’s mouth snapped shut, telling the printer he was right. Chaloner rolled his eyes, wishing Brome was endowed with a little more strength of character. Hodgkinson’s guilt had been irrefutably exposed, but Brome still hoped for a happy ending.

‘What do you intend to do with Newburne’s hoard?’ Chaloner asked, dodging to one side when Hodgkinson took aim again. ‘Share it between you?’

‘Of course not!’ cried Brome, shocked. ‘Hodgkinson brought it here for safekeeping, and we intend to see it returned to its rightful owners — the people Newburne defrauded. I cannot imagine how we will locate them all, but we shall do our best.’

Chaloner suspected Hodgkinson had a different plan in mind, and he saw neither he nor Brome were going to be allowed to leave Thames Street alive. The printer’s crimes were simply too great to allow witnesses to live.

‘Stop!’

A dark shadow streaked from Leybourn’s arms as he struggled to draw his sword. There was a deafening bang, and something grazed Chaloner’s hat as he threw himself to the floor. He said yet another silent prayer of thanks for Isabella’s gift. A second boom followed the first. Water surged into his ears, and spray was everywhere. Then all was silent.

* * *

Cautiously, Chaloner clambered to his feet and saw Hodgkinson floating face-down and unmoving in the water. Brome stood with his gun dangling from his fingers, while Leybourn, alarmed by the sudden discharge of deadly weapons, had raced back outside, and was taking shelter in the street.

‘What have I done?’ whispered Brome, appalled. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’

Chaloner spat foul water from his mouth. ‘It was not your fault. Hodgkinson-’

But Brome was full of anguish. ‘It was my fault! I took his life with this …’ Repelled, he flung the dag away from him, and stood wiping his hand on his coat, as if trying to clean it. When he next spoke, his voice was flat and expressionless. ‘I will take Newburne’s jewels to L’Estrange and ask him to return them to their rightful owners. Catching whoever tried to steal them from his cellar seems unimportant now. Why did you come here, if it was not for the treasure?’

‘To find evidence of Hodgkinson’s guilt.’ Chaloner did not explain that he had had the printer in his sights as the Butcher of Smithfield. ‘Why take the jewels to L’Estrange? You of all people know he is not always honest.’

Brome shrugged. ‘He is my master, and ethical in his own way. If I ask him to track down the victims of Newburne the phanatique, he will do it with all the fervour of an avenging angel. He is the best man for the task, other than perhaps your Earl. Unfortunately, though, Clarendon is on the other side of a flooded river.’

Chaloner gestured around the dark print-house. ‘Why did you come here tonight?’

‘Because Hodgkinson sent for me, and he was my friend.’ Brome’s voice trembled as he looked at the printer’s body. ‘I see I was wrong, and his betrayal emphasises the fact that I have no place here in London.’

‘You intend to run?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘Don’t. It will look as though-’

‘I do not care what it looks like,’ said Brome in the same numb tone. ‘The situation has escalated out of control, and a prudent disappearance is the only option open to me. Will you give me a hour’s grace, for friendship’s sake? To collect Joanna and flee this horrible city? If you do not trust me to give the jewels to L’Estrange, then take them yourself.’

Chaloner declined to accept the proffered box. ‘I must go to Smithfield before the Butcher — whoever he is — assumes power. I cannot waste time with treasure.’

‘It is reckless and stupid to go to Smithfield without knowing the identity of the man you think is responsible for so much evil,’ said Brome, seeming to come out of his daze a little. ‘You need more information. Talk to Muddiman. He knows more about London than anyone else, and might be willing to help you prevent a catastrophe.’

‘All the way back to The Strand?’ Brome’s suggestion made sense, but it would take far too long.

‘The bridges are closed, so he cannot have gone home. Try his favourite coffee house — the Turk’s Head at St Paul’s. And while you are there, ask him about this exploding oil, too. He bought a pamphlet from me on the subject just last week.’

Leybourn emerged from the shadows to make a lunge for Brome as he left the print-house, but the bookseller flinched away from the clumsily wielded weapon and disappeared into the night.

‘Why are you letting him go?’ demanded Leybourn. ‘He just shot Hodgkinson. I saw him!’

Chaloner was too weary to explain. ‘He saved my life, Will. The least I can do is return the favour.’

Leybourn waved his sword again. ‘He is irrelevant, anyway. Our first duty is to stop the Butcher from realising his nefarious plans. So, shall we go straight to Smithfield, or shall we do as Brome suggested and see what Muddiman is prepared to tell us?’

‘Muddiman,’ replied Chaloner, hurrying into the street. ‘Brome is right: knowledge is power, and we do not have enough of it to tackle the Butcher yet.’

‘What about your cat?’ asked Leybourn, as the spy set off towards St Paul’s. He looked sheepish. ‘I am afraid I dropped it.’

Chaloner grimaced, wishing Leybourn had looked after the animal, as he had been told.

‘It will find its way home.’ Leybourn was trotting to keep up with him. ‘But I am not sure I understand what happened in there. Newburne’s treasure-’

‘I will explain later,’ said Chaloner, not wanting to waste breath that could be used for running. It was still dark, but the first glimmerings of dawn were lightening the night sky. It would come late, because of the rain, but at least he could see where he was going. ‘Hurry!’

‘So the Butcher was not Hodgkinson?’ said Leybourn, beginning to pant.

Chaloner ran harder, splashing through water and oblivious to the spray that flew around him. ‘No.’

‘Maybe Muddiman is, then,’ gasped Leybourn. ‘For several reasons. He gave exploding oil to Hickes, to dispatch him before he reported something really incriminating to Williamson. He hired Hodgkinson to betray L’Estrange’s secrets. He probably killed Dury, because they argued. He bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day before one was left at the scene of Newburne’s death. And he is bitter because he lost control of the newsbooks to L’Estrange.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Muddiman is not the Butcher.’

‘Yes he is,’ countered Leybourn firmly. ‘And that is why he is at his coffee house and not at home tonight. He is on this side of the Fleet River, because he is preparing to seize his Smithfield throne.’

Lights burned in the Turk’s Head Coffee House. The windows had steamed up, so it was impossible to see inside, and the distinctive reek of burned coffee wafted into the street, combining unpleasantly with the stench of overloaded sewers. Chaloner was about to go in, when the door opened and Muddiman himself bustled out. He carried a bag, and behind him were two servants bearing boxes. The newsman raised his arm and a cart immediately rattled towards him, loaded with goods and covered with a sheet of oiled canvas.

‘Going somewhere?’ asked Chaloner softly, stepping in front of him.

Muddiman jumped in alarm. ‘The river is set to burst its banks, and I do not want to be here when it does. Besides, I meet L’Estrange everywhere I go these days, and he has a nasty habit of drawing his sword. Without Dury to protect me, I am safer in the country.’

‘L’Estrange is in there?’ asked Leybourn, trying to peer through the glass. ‘Have you considered the fact that he may have good reason to grab his weapon when you appear? You are a killer, and thus a dangerous man. You murdered Newburne with poisonous lozenges, and left one of the cucumbers you bought by his side.’

Chaloner winced.

‘I did no such thing,’ objected Muddiman indignantly. ‘My wife used those fruits to make me a remedy for wind. Ask her, my servants and my apothecary. They concocted the potion together.’

Chaloner suspected he was telling the truth, because it was a tale that could easily be verified, and Muddiman was not stupid.

‘You gave a flask of exploding oil to Hickes,’ Leybourn went on, going for his suspect like a dog with a rat.

‘Did I?’ asked Muddiman coldly. ‘Do you think me a fool, then, to blow up the Spymaster’s best agent? Besides, Hickes is no threat to me. He is incompetent.’

‘But now Dury is dead, Hickes will concentrate all his attention on you, and that will be inconvenient,’ said Leybourn, shaking off the warning hand that Chaloner laid on his arm.

Muddiman sighed. ‘You might have a point, if I was doing something I do not want Williamson to know about. But I am not.’

‘How about buying secrets from Hodgkinson?’ asked Chaloner, shoving Leybourn hard in an attempt to make him shut up. ‘Secrets that have damaged Williamson’s newsbooks?’

‘Hodgkinson has confessed to being Wenum, so do not deny it,’ added Leybourn.

‘You are lying,’ said Muddiman dismissively. ‘Hodgkinson is not Wenum. Wenum had something wrong with his face, and Hodgkinson has a beard-’ He stopped speaking as he saw how the two facts fitted together, but quickly rallied. ‘You cannot prove I sent Hickes the oil.’

‘Actually, I can,’ said Chaloner. ‘When I visited your office on Monday, I saw a pamphlet on such devices, and Brome just said he sold you one. It is not a subject a man reads about for fun, as I am sure Williamson will agree when he searches your home and finds it. But that is not your only crime. You are also responsible for Brome spying on L’Estrange. You sent Williamson some silly broadsheet Brome wrote as a child, knowing Williamson would use it to force him into turning informer.’

Muddiman sneered. ‘You call that a crime? Besides, it was Williamson who resorted to blackmail, not I. All I did was send our noble Spymaster an anonymous gift. It was a waste of time, though. I wanted Brome to discover something so unsavoury about L’Estrange that it would see him ousted, but he learned nothing we do not know already. And neither of them had the wits to work out the business with the music and the stolen horses.’

‘I have decided you are right: Muddiman is not Crisp,’ whispered Leybourn in Chaloner’s ear. His voice was hard and cold. ‘L’Estrange is.’

‘He is not,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘He cannot be, because-’

He broke off when the door to the coffee house creaked, and the editor himself stepped out.

‘Hah!’ yelled Leybourn in savage delight.

‘Christ!’ sighed Chaloner, bracing himself for yet more trouble. ‘What wretched timing!’

L’Estrange grinned when he saw Muddiman talking to Chaloner and Leybourn, and gave a bow that was intended to be insulting. ‘All the phanatiques together. What are you plotting this time?’

‘Your downfall,’ replied Leybourn bitingly. ‘I was just about to explain to Tom how you send coded messages to criminals, telling them when to steal horses, so you can collect five shillings when the hapless victim is obliged to advertise the loss in your nasty little newsbooks.’

‘It is a fascinating theory,’ drawled Muddiman. ‘And I wish Dury were here to hear it. However, I shall be sure to repeat it in my next newsletter, so others can enjoy it, too.’

Chaloner was not surprised when L’Estrange’s sword was whipped from its scabbard, or when Leybourn struggled to do the same. He drew his own and stood between them, wishing L’Estrange had stayed in the coffee house for just a few moments longer. He had just missed a second night of sleep, and his wits were not as sharp as they should have been — he was not sure he was alert enough to prevent the brewing skirmish by trying to reason with them.

‘I am no horse thief,’ snapped L’Estrange. He ignored Leybourn and lunged at Muddiman, furious when his blow was parried by Chaloner’s blade.

Muddiman jerked into Leybourn, who promptly dropped his weapon in the water that lapped around their feet.

‘No?’ demanded the newsmonger, rashly provocative. ‘Then tell Heyden why you wanted Newburne’s death quietly forgotten. Dury was looking into the matter for me, but you warned him and Heyden to leave the matter well alone.’

‘Of course I did,’ exploded L’Estrange. ‘Newburne died of cucumbers. There was no need for an investigation, because cucumbers kill people all the time. I am a newsman, so party to this sort of information. I could name half a dozen people who have died of cucumbers this year alone.’

‘And it did not occur to you that this is odd?’ Muddiman grabbed Leybourn and cowered behind him, as L’Estrange brandished his sword and Chaloner tried to keep it from landing on someone. Leybourn was desperately scrabbling around in the water for his lost weapon, and Chaloner might have laughed at the ludicrousness of the situation, had he not been so tired or so worried about what might be happening in Smithfield.

‘Of course it is not odd. People die of peculiar things all the time. Besides, if you must know the truth, I was paying court to Dorcus Newburne when her husband breathed his last, and I knew what Dury would have made of that — he would have said it was motive for murder. Damned phanatique!’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Leybourn, as he found his blade at last. It came out of the water like Excalibur. ‘And you, Muddiman? Why did you order Tom not to investigate Newburne?’

‘Because Dury was doing it,’ replied Chaloner, when Muddiman realised he was in more danger from Leybourn’s undisciplined swipes than L’Estrange’s determined lunges. The newsman ducked and weaved, more interested in protecting himself than in answering questions. ‘And he did not want us tripping over each other in the search for clues.’

‘Let me at him,’ ordered L’Estrange, advancing purposefully on his rival. ‘I do not want to kill you, Heyden, so step aside before you are hurt. Muddiman, prepare to die! London will not mourn a phanatique of your standing.’

Muddiman shrieked as L’Estrange fought his way past Chaloner, whose attention was half on keeping Leybourn out of the fight, and he suddenly found himself exposed.

‘Stop him! I will tell you everything if you save me. Dury was investigating how messages in music helped criminals to steal horses, and Crisp slaughtered him when he came too close to the truth. He went to Hodgkinson’s print-shop in Smithfield for answers, and was strangled for his pains. A gutter was dropped on his head to conceal what really happened.’

‘The music is nothing,’ snapped L’Estrange, scowling when Chaloner grabbed his coat and spun him around, forcing him to halt his relentless advance. ‘Greeting takes the stuff to Williamson for me, because Williamson thinks it contains a code, but he is wrong. I have played it every way imaginable, and it is just music — from China, probably, which is why it is difficult for western ears to understand.’

L’Estrange was the one who was wrong, thought Chaloner, falling back quickly when the editor went on the offensive. Williamson knew exactly what the music meant. But why had the Spymaster tossed the music on the fire when Greeting had delivered it? He realised the answer was clear: Williamson had no intention of interfering with Hector business. And why? Because they obliged him with manpower when he needed something shady done.

Leybourn had been about to stab L’Estrange in the back while the editor’s attention was on Chaloner, but he lowered the weapon slowly as he considered the claims. ‘You are not Crisp, either,’ he said, sounding startled. ‘You cannot be, if you are passing the music to Williamson.’

Chaloner had had enough of dancing around with L’Estrange. He abandoned the fancy sword-play of Court and reverted to more brutal tactics — ones he had learned during the wars. In seconds, L’Estrange’s elegant weapon lay on the ground and the editor was nursing a bruised hand. Muddiman did not wait to see what else happened; he dashed to his cart, screaming at the driver to whip the horses into a gallop. Boxes dropped from the wagon as it careened away, and shadows emerged from nearby alleys to claim them.

‘How do you come by the music you send to Williamson?’ asked Chaloner, standing next to L’Estrange as they watched the newsmonger rattle away.

‘Brome keeps it hidden in Joanna’s virginals,’ replied L’Estrange sullenly, inspecting his fingers in the gathering light of dawn. ‘You must have noticed the instrument’s muted tones when we played together? Well, I looked inside it one day, and it was full of this odd music. Brome frets when a few pieces go missing occasionally, but I do not see the harm in taking a couple now and then. It pleases Williamson, and that should be reward enough.’

‘Brome,’ said Chaloner. He exchanged an appalled glance with Leybourn as the truth finally dawned. They had had the Butcher of Smithfield in their hands, and they had let him go.

‘I tried to tell you I did not trust Brome,’ said Leybourn, as they raced through the sodden streets towards Ivy Lane. ‘But you would not stop to listen, and I was overly ready to believe Muddiman was the culprit. Brome had two guns. He aimed at Hodgkinson with one, and you with the other. I saw him. Obviously, he sent us to the Turk’s Head to make us waste time.’

‘He did not make much attempt to disarm Hodgkinson, did he,’ said Chaloner, wondering why he had not seen it at the time. He supposed he was simply too tired. ‘He wanted him to shoot me.’

‘Because he could not tackle two fairly dangerous men at the same time,’ explained Leybourn. ‘If Hodgkinson had dispatched you, then he would have been left with only one. He might be the Butcher, but he does not do his own dirty work. He has Hectors for that. And Mary.’

‘He did not know Hodgkinson was Wenum, though. His surprise over that was genuine.’

‘And so was his retribution,’ said Leybourn. ‘Hodgkinson did not live long after that little secret came out, did he!’

The streets were light now, although it was a grey, sullen dawn that oppressed the spirits. People were sweeping water from their houses, and everywhere, buckets were being emptied. It was all to no avail: rain kept falling as if it intended to drown London and every living thing in it.

They reached Ivy Lane, and Chaloner skidded to a stop. He wished he was not so tired, and that he could think properly. Leybourn had not sheathed his sword; he was holding it like a battleaxe, and unless Chaloner devised some sort of strategy, his friend’s determination to avenge himself was going to cause some fatal problems.

‘We cannot just burst in,’ he said. Exhaustion slurred his words. ‘His Hectors will kill us.’

‘You have a plan?’

‘No,’ admitted Chaloner. He pointed to where Kirby was guarding the bookshop door. ‘But it looks as if Brome has already asserted control over his Hectors. Of course, they will be eager to do his bidding — I let him take Newburne’s treasure, so he has the wherewithal to pay them. I should have been suspicious when he offered to take the box to L’Estrange in the first place. He was supposed to be running for his life, and who cares about delivering stolen property under such circumstances?’

‘We must smash his vile empire,’ declared Leybourn. ‘And the only way to do that is to strike off its head. Once it is leaderless, it will founder, and hopefully Williamson will be able to crush the rest of it before someone else steps up to accept the challenge.’

‘Williamson? He is more likely to appoint a new Butcher — the Hectors are too useful to lose.’ Chaloner tried to rally his fading strength. ‘We cannot do this alone, Will. We need help.’

‘Unfortunately, that will not be coming. The only man I trust is Thurloe, and he is on the wrong side of a flooded river. And if you say Williamson will turn a blind eye to the Hectors, then there is no point in sending for him, either — he will probably arrange for us to die. The best option is for us to storm the bookshop and stab Brome before he realises what is happening.’

‘Kirby will shoot us long before we reach the door. How many coffee houses are there nearby?’

Leybourn gazed uncertainly at him. ‘Why?’

‘How many?’

Leybourn shrugged. ‘Half a dozen or more.’ He began to list them.

Chaloner shoved him towards the closest. ‘Go to the ones by St Paul’s. Say the vicar of Wollaston has complained to the government about his prayer-book being smeared with grease, so the government is giving him a solid gold lectern as compensation. It will cost a thousand pounds, and will be paid for by a tax imposed on Londoners.’

Leybourn gaped at him. ‘What for? It will cause all manner of trouble.’

‘Of course it will. And you can say a public announcement of the facts will be made from the newsbook offices within the hour. I will do the same along Cheapside. Carry your sword, and say people are massing in Ivy Lane to voice their objections.’

‘What is to stop them marching on White Hall?’ asked Leybourn uneasily.

‘A flooded river and no bridges. Hurry, or we will be too late.’

Chaloner darted towards Cheapside without waiting for an answer, praying that the coffee houses would be full of their usual early-morning patrons. People saw his drawn weapon and gave him a wide berth as he ran. He shouted that there was to be a great announcement at Ivy Lane in a few moments time, and although some folk ignored him, others started to move towards the newsbook offices.

It was easier to inflame the occupants of the coffee houses than he had anticipated, and he was startled when he reached the third one to find his tale had preceded him. Someone had run ahead, and men were streaming out of the door, heading westwards through the pouring rain. He glanced east, and saw coffee-boys racing to the next establishment and the one after that. The rumour was now well out of his control, so he turned back to Ivy Lane.

He arrived to find a crowd of about fifty people milling in the street, and more were flocking to join them with each passing moment. Kirby was declaring that there would be no announcement, and that they should go home, but Kirby was a Hector, and his very presence in such a place was unusual enough to fuel speculation. People refused to budge. Then someone threw a stone at a window, and the sound of smashing glass brought a triumphant cheer. It was time to act.

Chaloner ran around the block, and let himself in through Brome’s back door. It was locked and there was a guard, but one he picked with his customary deftness, and the other he felled with a sharp blow from Joanna’s otherwise useless pistol. He made his way along the corridor towards the bookshop. Brome was there, looking out of the window, and with him were Ireton and several Hectors. There was another cheer, and Kirby suddenly raced through the front door, slamming it behind him.

‘They are throwing rocks at me now,’ he yelled indignantly. ‘Give me a gun. There is only one way they will be driven off.’

‘Order them home,’ instructed Brome. ‘They will go if you tell them properly.’

‘I have told them properly,’ shouted Kirby, ‘but they will not listen. They are saying there is to be an announcement about some new tax. If you do not believe me, you go out and try to convince them.’

‘Someone is trying to obstruct us,’ said Ireton thoughtfully. ‘Where is Joanna? This is an important day, and I do not want her wandering about and spoiling everything.’

‘She will not spoil anything,’ said Brome icily.

Ireton raised his hands and backed down at the fierce tenor of the bookseller’s voice.

Chaloner took a deep breath, and stepped into the room. He levelled the dag at the group by the window. ‘The King’s troops will be here any moment, and you are all under arrest. Put up your weapons.’

Ireton sneered. ‘What will you do when we refuse? Shoot us all? With one gun? I would have thought you had learned that lesson already. Grab him, Kirby.’

Chaloner lobbed the dag hard enough to knock Kirby cold, then took a firmer grip on his sword. Ireton drew his own blade, while Brome hurled a dagger. It went wide, and stuck in the doorframe near Chaloner’s head.

‘You summoned that crowd,’ snarled Ireton, lunging at him. ‘You are the one trying to sabotage what we have worked for all these years.’

Chaloner jumped away from him, noting that Brome was making no further attempt to fight. Leybourn had been right: he did prefer others to do his dirty work. He stood with his arms folded and indicated with a nod of his head that his men should make an end of the spy who was such a thorn in his side. Obligingly, several Hectors closed in on Chaloner from behind, restricting the space he needed to wield his sword.

‘I should have known,’ Chaloner said to the bookseller. ‘You warned me away from “Crisp” the first time we met. You pretended to be afraid, to frighten me into abandoning my enquiries. You knew they would lead to me discovering not only the identity of Newburne’s killer, but also your plans to take control of Smithfield.’

‘And you ignored me,’ said Brome wearily. ‘I tried to keep you out of it, but you did the exact opposite of whatever I recommended. You know little that can harm us, but it is a pity you meddled.’

‘I know enough. For example, I have deduced that you killed Finch. You admitted to hating the trumpet when we played with L’Estrange, and you showed your ignorance of the instrument when you put cucumber inside it — you put the chewed piece in the wrong place. Callously, you ate a pie while you watched Finch die.’

‘I was listening to him play,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘He had acquired some of the music I send to Ireton, to say where and when to procure certain horses. I needed to know whether he had decoded the messages, but I could tell from his playing that he had not. I offered him a lozenge anyway.’

‘Yesterday, you told me the music might be code,’ said Chaloner, jerking away from a riposte from Ireton that almost removed an ear. Once again, the hat came into its own. ‘You were testing me, to see if I had worked it out, too.’

‘You were good,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘I confess I had no idea at the end of the discussion whether you had guessed our secret or not. I decided your days were numbered regardless, because loose ends can be dangerous.’

‘Was Newburne a loose end?’

‘He was cheating us, which was unacceptable. I sent him some lozenges — the same as the ones I fed to Pettis, Beauclair and anyone else who did not fall in with our plans.’ Another stone hit the window with a crack, and Chaloner could hear people yelling that they wanted the news.

‘And it was all for horses?’ he asked.

‘Horses are a lucrative business,’ replied Brome. ‘And do not think the government will stop us, because Williamson knows all about it. L’Estrange got hold of a few tunes somehow, and sent them to him. He understood their significance immediately, but he turns a blind eye.’

‘And why not?’ asked Ireton. ‘He has nothing to lose and a great deal to gain — more advertisements sold; more people wanting to buy the newsbooks for tales of lost nags; more people reading the news he decides should be released. If you think Williamson is going to put an end to that, you are a fool.’

‘Why do you think he set Hickes and Greeting to solve Newburne’s murder?’ added Brome, gloating now. ‘A half-wit and a novice, neither of whom was going to discover anything. He even sent Hickes to Finch’s room on my behalf, when I foolishly left the music behind. Of course, Hickes neglected to collect the lozenges, so I was obliged to go back myself anyway.’

‘And you pretend to be his reluctant spy,’ said Chaloner, disgusted. ‘You let him think he has a hold over you with that pamphlet you wrote, but the reality is that the information you send him is carefully designed to benefit your own cause.’

Smugly, Brome inclined his head.

‘Enough talking,’ snapped Ireton, lunging again. ‘The Butcher will be here soon.’

His comment startled Chaloner anew. ‘What do you mean? Brome is the Butcher.’

Ireton laughed as the spy’s lapse in concentration allowed him to perform a fancy manoeuvre that saw the sword wrenched from his hand. ‘Do not be ridiculous!’

The door opened. ‘Joanna!’ exclaimed Brome. ‘You should not be here.’

‘I heard there was trouble,’ said Joanna. She looked furious. ‘And since I cannot trust you to do anything properly, I am here to sort out the mess. I cannot take Crisp’s mantle as long as there is a mob outside, baying for blood.’

Chaloner gaped at Joanna, scarcely believing his ears, and was sufficiently astounded that Ireton came close to running him through. It was only an instinctive twist that saved him. As he turned, he saw Kirby had crawled to a cupboard and had pulled out a gun. He was priming it, and Chaloner knew he would be shot as soon as it was ready. He was running out of time, and facing insurmountable odds.

Joanna smiled prettily at Chaloner, but he did not think he had ever seen eyes so cold. There was no trace of the rabbit now — the prey had turned predator. ‘I understand I owe you my thanks,’ she said pleasantly. ‘You relieved me of a certain problem.’

‘Crisp?’

‘Hodgkinson — Henry tells me you unmasked him as a traitor to the newsbooks. Mary must take the credit for Crisp, although I was furious when I learned she had involved poor William in our plan to be rid of the fellow. I was angry when she set her sights on him at all — he is popular, and their relationship attracted the wrong kind of attention.’

‘You were keen to separate them.’ Chaloner performed an agile leap across a table to avoid Ireton, and managed to retrieve his sword at the same time. He found himself facing two more Hectors. They did not possess his skill with a blade, but beating them off took too much of his failing strength.

‘I did want to separate them,’ she agreed, with the same icy smile. ‘I ordered her to leave him alone, but she could not resist stupid men. Still, she is gone now, which is just as well. The gunpowder was a foolish idea, and the whole affair was hopelessly bungled.’

Chaloner’s muscles burned with fatigue when Ireton resumed his attack, and he was not sure how much longer he could fight. Then Joanna gestured for her henchman to hold off. Chaloner was amusing her, and she did not want him killed just yet. Meanwhile, Kirby sat on the floor, feverishly loading his gun.

‘You have been pretending to be Crisp for some time now,’ said Chaloner, wondering why he had not associated the Butcher’s slender grace with Joanna before. ‘The real one has been in the country with his books and experiments, seen only by his father. When you are out, you are surrounded by Hectors — not to protect Crisp as I assumed, but to keep anyone from coming close and seeing you. And you decline invitations-’

‘Like the Butchers’ Company dinner,’ said Ireton. Chaloner remembered Maylord’s neighbour mentioning Crisp’s abrupt cancellation. ‘I told you to let me go. I could have carried it off.’

‘I am sure you could,’ said Joanna coolly, and Chaloner saw Ireton was too ambitious for his own safety. He would not last long under the new regime. She turned to Chaloner, laughing at him. He wondered how he ever could have thought of her as sweet and meek. ‘How can I be the Butcher? You saw him the morning you went to Haye’s Coffee House with Henry, but I was with Mrs Chiffinch, consoling her over her husband’s infidelity.’

‘I doubt your company could have compared to that of L’Estrange,’ countered Chaloner. ‘He would have occupied Mrs Chiffinch, giving you ample time to don a disguise and make an appearance. Besides, how do you know I saw the Butcher that day? It was an insignificant event, and not the sort of thing most husbands would have mentioned to their wives. But of course it was significant, wasn’t it? Brone deliberately dallied as he gave alms to that beggar, which gave you time to change and leave the house. You wanted me to see “Crisp” at a point when I would think he could not be either of you.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Brome, rather boastfully. ‘It was a precaution, lest you later-’

‘We are wasting time, and this is no longer fun,’ snapped Joanna, turning to anger fast enough to be disturbing. ‘I should have killed you yesterday, but I thought you might be a useful source of information. You have now outlived that usefulness.’

‘I will shoot him.’ Kirby had finally finished preparing the gun, and he stood with triumph in his face. ‘I have been wanting to do this ever since he attacked me outside the Bear.’

‘You have not loaded it properly,’ said Ireton, rolling his eyes when Kirby squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. ‘And a sword is better for this kind of work anyway.’

‘News!’ came a yell from outside. ‘We want news.’

Joanna grimaced. ‘Make a speech, Henry. Tell them the government has no intention of raising another tax. Diffuse the situation. It will please Williamson, and make him more willing to look the other way while we grow rich.’

Ireton came after Chaloner with a series of concerted sweeps. Two more Hectors weaved behind the spy, and he stumbled when one stabbed his leg. His boot saved him from injury, but he felt himself losing ground.

There was a roar of massed voices, and a heavy missile crashed through a window, sending glass spraying across the room. The mob cheered, and through the broken pane, Chaloner could see Leybourn, urging them on. The surveyor prised a rock from the sodden ground, but it was the windows of the house next door that paid the price. The crowd laughed, and suddenly more stones were being hurled. The room was awash with them, and one struck Chaloner’s shoulder. Then Kirby took aim again.

The gun’s blast was deafening in the confined space, and Chaloner saw the felon drop to the floor with blood on his hand. In his haste, he had used too much powder. More stones pelted the windows, and Chaloner noticed Brome and Joanna had gone. His momentary lack of concentration saw Ireton on him, and he was hard-pressed to defend himself. Someone hit him from behind, and he fell heavily. Ireton’s sword plunged downwards, and he only just managed to twist away. Then the room was full of shouting. The crowd had stormed inside. Leybourn was at the front, blade in his hand.

‘Hectors!’ he yelled furiously. ‘Run them through! Proud Londoners are not afraid of Hectors!’

Not everyone rallied to his battle cry, but enough did. The Hectors turned and ran. It was the worst thing they could have done, because the mob became braver once it smelled a rout. Chaloner saw several criminals disappear under a flailing mêlée of fists and knives.

‘Bastard!’ yelled Ireton at Leybourn, seeing the surveyor as the cause of the disaster. He gripped his weapon and prepared to make an end of him. Leybourn was whirling his blade around his head like a madman, but he neglected to maintain a proper grip. It flew from his fingers, and its hilt caught Ireton in the centre of the forehead. He went down as if poleaxed.

‘I did not mean to-’ began Leybourn, startled.

Chaloner staggered to his feet as two burly apprentices advanced on the senseless Ireton. He put out a hand to stop them, but they knocked him away.

‘Joanna and Brome have escaped,’ he said to Leybourn, looking away from the carnage.

‘Does it matter?’ asked Leybourn, grabbing his arm and making for the door. The people who had not chased Hectors were busily looting the shop, stripping it of anything that could be carried. ‘They are toothless now their henchmen are on the run.’

‘We do not want them loose in the city. They will avenge themselves somehow.’

‘I saw them heading for the river, but they cannot escape because the bridge is closed. Brome was carrying a box — Newburne’s treasure, presumably.’

The rain had stopped, but everywhere was running with water. It was so deep in Paternoster Row that it was above Chaloner’s knees, and flowed fast as it headed for lower ground. His progress was agonisingly slow. Joanna looked behind, and he could hear her urging her husband on. Brome was slower, and she would have made better time alone, but she would not leave him. When he dropped the box, she screamed at him to leave it.

‘Gather it up,’ ordered Chaloner, pushing Leybourn towards the abandoned hoard. ‘Or it will wash into the Thames, and the Earl will dismiss me for certain.’

Leybourn did as he was told, grabbing mud as well as gems, while Chaloner struggled on, trying to ignore the burning exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. Joanna reached Ludgate Hill, skidding and sliding down towards the Fleet. There was a barrier across the road to stop people from approaching, but she dodged around it, dragging her husband after her. She gained the bridge, ignoring the yells of people who shouted that it was ripe for collapse.

Hands reached out to prevent Chaloner from following, and he lost his footing. Joanna and Brome were a quarter of the way across when the structure began to sway. They tried to move faster. Chaloner punched his way free of the people who were holding him, and staggered towards the balustrade. It shuddered, and there was a tearing groan. The pair were more than halfway across, and he saw they were going to escape. Joanna turned and gave him a jaunty wave.

Chaloner took another step, but someone came from nowhere, and he felt himself hauled backwards just as the bridge tore away from its moorings. He managed to lift his head in time to see Joanna and Brome carried with it. Brome’s mouth was open in a scream, and Joanna’s face was white with horror as they were swept downstream. Then the whole structure rolled, and began to crack apart. Chaloner closed his eyes and fell back, exhausted.

‘Well,’ drawled L’Estrange. ‘There is an end to them! You are lucky I followed you, or that pair would not be the only ones heading for a watery grave. I always knew Brome was a phanatique. Joanna, too, or she would have let me bed her when I made my advances. But you are in my debt now, Heyden. I saved your life, and in return, you will say nothing to Williamson about my inadvertent role in this affair.’

‘I shall say nothing to Williamson at all,’ said Chaloner fervently, not liking to imagine what would happen to him if the Spymaster ever discovered that he knew about the blind eye that had been turned to the Hectors’ thievery.

‘Very wise,’ said L’Estrange. ‘Shall we seal our arrangement with some music?’

‘I do not know about that,’ said Chaloner. There were limits.

‘Tomorrow, at three o’clock,’ said L’Estrange comfortably. ‘And do not be late.’