The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 1

London, Late October 1663

A combination of chiming bells and hammering rain woke Thomas Chaloner that grey Sunday morning. At first, he did not know where he was, and he sat up with a jolt, automatically reaching for the dagger at his side. The realisation that he did not need it, that he was safe in his rooms at Fetter Lane, came just after the shock of discovering that his weapon was not where it had been these last four months, and it took a few moments to bring his instinctive alarm under control. He lay back on his bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, and forced himself to relax. He was at home, not working in enemy territory on the Spanish-Portuguese border, and the bells were calling the faithful to their weekly devotions, not warning of an imminent attack.

He pushed back the blanket and walked to the window. In the street below, Fetter Lane was much as it had been when he had left the city back in June. Carts still creaked across its manure-carpeted cobbles, impeded that morning by the rainwater that formed a fast-moving stream down one side, and the Golden Lion tavern still stood opposite, its sign swinging gently in the wind and its sleepy-eyed patrons just beginning to emerge from a night of dark talk and conspiracy. The recently installed Royalist government was uneasy about the seditious discussions it believed took place in the many coffee houses that were springing up all over London, but Chaloner thought half the country’s dissidents could be eradicated in one fell swoop if the Golden Lion was monitored — and probably half its criminals, too. He did not think he had ever encountered a place that was such a flagrant haven for felons and mischief-makers.

He almost jumped out of his skin when something brushed against his leg, and he reached for his knife a second time; but it was only the stray cat that had attached itself to him on his journey home from Lisbon. He assumed its affection was hunger-driven, until he spotted the remains of a rat near the hearth; the animal had evidently despaired of being fed and had procured its own breakfast. It rubbed his leg again, then jumped on to the window sill and began to wash itself.

Dawn had broken, and people were walking, riding or being driven to church. Chaloner supposed he had better join them, not because he had any burning desire for religion, but because he did not want to draw attention to himself with unorthodox behaviour. After a decade of Puritan rule, the newly reinstated bishops were eager to assert the authority of the traditional Church, and anyone not attending the Sunday services laid himself open to accusations of nonconformism. Like most spies, Chaloner tried to keep a low profile, and aimed to do all that was expected of him in the interests of maintaining anonymity.

The travelling clothes he had been wearing for the last three weeks were tar-stained and stiff with sea-salt, so he knelt by the chest at the end of the bed and rummaged about for something clean. He was horrified to discover that moths and mice had been there before him, and that what had been a respectable wardrobe was now a mess of holes and shreds. It was not that he particularly enjoyed donning splendid costumes, but his work as an intelligence officer meant that he was required to dress to a certain standard in order to gain access to the places where he needed to be. If he went to the Palace of White Hall — where the King lived and his ministers had their offices — clad in rags, the guards would refuse to let him in.

Eventually, he found a blue long-coat with silver buttons, knee-length breeches and a laced shirt that had somehow escaped the creatures’ ravages. ‘Lacing’ was a recent — and to his mind foppish — fashion, and he disliked the sensation of extraneous material flapping around his wrists and neck, but at least it provided convenient hiding places for the various weapons he always carried. Over the coat went the sash that held his sword; no gentlemen ever left home without a sword. His hat was black with a wide brim and a conical dome, and looked unremarkable. However, it had been given to him by a lady he had befriended in Spain, and its crown had been cleverly reinforced with a skin of steel. In a profession where sly blows to the head were not uncommon, he felt it was sure to prove useful.

He stumbled over a warped floorboard as he headed for the door, and a quick glance around the rented rooms he called home — an attic chamber containing a bed, two chairs, a chest and a table, and an adjoining pantry-cum-storeroom — told him that the subsidence he had first noticed at Christmas had grown a lot more marked during the four months he had been away. A fire in the house next door was to blame, and he was surprised the city authorities had not ordered his building to be demolished, too. The roof leaked, his windows no longer closed, and there was a distinct list to his floor. He only hoped that if — when — it did collapse, he would not be in it.

He walked swiftly down the stairs to the ground floor, the cat at his heels. He did not tiptoe deliberately, but stealth was second nature to a spy, and his sudden, soundless appearance startled his landlord, Daniel Ellis. Ellis was standing in front of a tin mirror, trying to see whether his wig was on straight in the dim light of the hall.

‘Lord!’ Ellis exclaimed, hand to his heart. ‘I did not hear you coming. I must be growing deaf.’

Ellis had been genuinely pleased to see his tenant return the previous evening. The speed of Chaloner’s departure — which had barely left him time to pack a bag; he had actually missed the ship he had been ordered to catch, and had been obliged to pay a riverman to row after it — had left Ellis with the impression that Chaloner might not come back. And there had been rent owing.

Chaloner gesticulated upwards. ‘Did you know the ceiling in my room-’

‘There is nothing wrong with my house,’ interrupted Ellis, in a way that told Chaloner he was probably not the first to complain. ‘Rats have a penchant for wood, as I have told you before, and they always gnaw beams when folk leave their rooms unoccupied for long periods of time. Of course, now you have a cat, rodents will no longer be a problem.’

Chaloner could have argued, but the chambers suited him well for a number of reasons. First, the subsidence had allowed him to negotiate a low rent, which was important to a man whose employer sometimes forgot to pay him. Secondly, Fetter Lane was a reasonably affluent street and its householders kept it lit at night — a spy always liked to be able to see what was happening outside his home. And finally, it was convenient for White Hall, where his master, the Earl of Clarendon worked.

‘Some letters came when you were gone,’ said Ellis, retrieving a bundle of missives from the chest under the mirror. ‘I was going to give them to your next of kin.’

‘You thought I was dead?’

Ellis became a little defensive. ‘It was not an unreasonable assumption — you left very abruptly, and then there was no news of you for months. I heard you playing your viol last night, by the way. At least the rats did not eat that.’

Chaloner would not have been pleased if they had. Playing the bass viol, or viola de gamba, was the thing he had missed above all else during his time away. Music soothed him and cleared his mind when he needed to concentrate, and although Isabella — the lady who had provided him with the hat and other comforts in Portugal — had arranged for him to borrow an instrument, it was not the same as playing his own. He took the letters from Ellis as his landlord locked the front door behind them.

There were five messages, which included three from his family in Buckinghamshire. He opened these first and scanned them quickly, afraid, as always, that a missive from home might carry bad news. All was well, though, and his brother was only demanding to know why he had not written. The fourth note was from his friend, the surveyor-mathematician William Leybourn, inviting him to dine with him and the woman he intended to marry. A date of the twentieth of July was scrawled at the bottom, and Chaloner wondered whether he might find Leybourn wed when he went to visit. He hoped so: Leybourn was always whining about not having a wife.

The fifth and last had been written just two days before, and was from a musician called Thomas Maylord. Maylord had been a close friend of Chaloner’s father, and had played for Oliver Cromwell’s court; when the Commonwealth had collapsed and King Charles II had reclaimed his throne three years before, Maylord had somehow managed to persuade the Royalists to keep him on. The letter was brief, and begged the spy for a meeting at his earliest convenience. The tone was curt, almost frightened, and very unlike the amiable violist. It was unsettling, and Chaloner supposed he had better find out what was distressing the old man as soon as he could.

St Dunstan-in-the-West was a large, stalwart church with a big square tower and a walled graveyard that jutted out into Fleet Street — much to the annoyance of carters and hackney-drivers, who tended to collide with it in foggy weather. It was full that morning, as people crowded inside to hear Rector Thompson preach a sermon about original sin. It was probably an erudite and well-argued discourse, but Thompson mumbled and there were so many babies and small children screaming that very little of his homily could be heard. Chaloner leaned against a pillar, folded his arms and thought that obligatory appearances at Sunday services was one aspect of home he had not missed at all.

Also bored, Ellis began to tell Chaloner about the foul weather that had beset the city while the spy had been away. Chaloner glanced around and saw the landlord was not the only one to be talking while Thompson pontificated in his pulpit. Behind them, two merchants discussed the imminent arrival of a consignment of French wine, while the man in front had his arms around two women, and was enjoying a conversation that was bawdy and far from private.

‘You did not say where you have been,’ said Ellis, when Chaloner made no comment on his dreary monologue of storms, rain and drizzle. ‘Was it far?’

‘I visited Dover,’ replied Chaloner ambiguously. He was fortunate in that Ellis seldom quizzed him about the odd hours he kept, or the disguises he often donned. The landlord believed him to be a victualling clerk for the Admiralty, an occupation so staid and dull that few people ever wanted to know about it. Unfortunately, though, even Ellis’s incurious nature was goaded into asking about a sudden and abrupt departure that had lasted nigh on four months.

‘Dover?’ echoed Ellis, scratching his head. There were lice in his periwig. ‘In Kent?’

‘The navy has business there,’ hedged Chaloner. Careful phrasing meant he was not actually lying, because his ship had stopped in Dover before sailing for Lisbon. He supposed there was no reason why he should not tell people that he had been on official business in Portugal and Spain, but he had been trained to keep confidences to a minimum and, after a decade in espionage, it was a difficult habit to break.

‘There is a big castle in Dover,’ said Ellis, as if he imagined his tenant might not have noticed it. ‘It will be our first line of defence when the Dutch invade. I was in the Turk’s Head Coffee House last night, and it was full of talk about the great flotilla of boats the Dutch is building, ready to fight us.’

‘They do not need to build anything,’ said Chaloner, who had spent several years undercover in Holland. ‘They already have a great navy. And, unlike ours, it is manned by sailors who have been paid, and is equipped with ships that are actually seaworthy.’

Ellis shook his head. ‘The government should spend more money on defending us from foreigners, and less on chasing phantom rebels in the north of England. Have you been reading the newsbooks? The new editor, Roger L’Estrange, wants us to believe that Yorkshire is trying to start another civil war. He is obsessed with men he calls “phanatiques”.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner vaguely, reluctant to admit that he had not seen a newsbook — an eight-page ‘news-paper’ produced by the government for the general public — since June or that he had never heard of Roger L’Estrange. He did not want to startle Ellis into an interrogation by displaying a total ignorance of current affairs.

‘L’Estrange is something of a phanatique himself, if you ask me,’ Ellis went on disapprovingly. ‘Someone should tell him the newsbooks were not founded to provide him with an opportunity to rant, but to disseminate interesting information to readers. I want to know who has died, been promoted or robbed in London, not L’Estrange’s perverted opinions about Yorkshire. And as for that piece about the Swiss ambassador — well, who cares what a foreign diplomat was given to eat in France?’

‘True,’ said Chaloner, supposing he had better spend a few hours reading, to catch up.

‘I am pleased to see you home again,’ said Ellis, searching for a subject that would elicit more than monosyllabic answers. ‘You said you might be gone a month, but it was four times that, and I was beginning to think you had decided to lodge elsewhere.’

Chaloner thought back to the blossom-scented June morning when he had received the message that ordered him to go immediately to White Hall. Such summons were not unusual from his employer, and he had not thought much about it. Like many politicians, the Earl of Clarendon — currently Lord Chancellor — had accumulated plenty of enemies during his life, and relied on his spy to provide him with information that would allow him to stay one step ahead of them. However, it had not been Clarendon who had sent for him, then dispatched him on a long and dangerous mission to the Iberian Peninsula. It had been the Queen — and no one refused the ‘request’ of a monarch, even though Chaloner had been reluctant to leave London. He smiled absently at Ellis, then made a show of listening to the sermon. Ellis sighed at his tenant’s uncommunicative manner, but did not press him further.

When the service was over, the congregation flooded into Fleet Street and Ellis went to join cronies from his coffee-house. They immediately began a spirited debate about a newsbook editorial that described Quakers as ‘licentious and incorrigible’; some thought the epithet accurate, while others claimed they would make up their own minds and did not need L’Estrange telling them what to think. Chaloner began to walk to White Hall, aware that his Earl would want to know he was home at last. The rain had stopped, although it had left Fleet Street a soft carpet of mud, and he was astonished by the lively bustle as traders hawked their wares. There had been few secular activities allowed on the Sabbath in Catholic Spain, and the contrast was startling.

‘God will send a great pestilence,’ bawled a street-preacher, who evidently thought the same. He stood on a crate in the middle of the road, and risked life and limb as traffic surged around him. ‘There is plague in Venice, and He will inflict one on London unless you repent.’

‘He has already sent one,’ quipped a leatherworker’s apprentice, as he staggered by with a load of cured pelts balanced on his head. ‘Half the Court has French pox, so I have heard.’

People laughed, and Chaloner was impressed when the lad managed a cheeky bow without dropping what he was carrying. The preacher scowled at him, and muttered that God would be including cocky apprentices among His list of targets when the plague arrived in the city.

Chaloner hurried on, warned by a rank, acrid smell that he was approaching the Rainbow Coffee House, an establishment infamous for the ‘noisome stenches’ associated with its roasting beans. Suddenly, the door was flung open and a man stalked out. He was tall, lean and elegantly dressed, and a pair of outrageously large gold rings dangled from his ears. His handsome, but cruel, face was dark with fury, and he gripped the hilt of his sword as though he itched to run someone through with it. Chaloner thought he looked like a pirate — dangerous and unpredictable.

Moments later, the Rainbow’s door opened a second time, and two more men emerged. Both were clad in the very latest Court fashions, although the spotless white lace that frothed around their knees and their clean shoes told Chaloner that they had not sloshed through Fleet Street’s mud that morning, but had travelled in style — carried in a sedan-chair or a hackney-coach. The shorter of the pair, who sported a long yellow wig, held a newsbook in his hand.

‘“Personal lozenges by Theophilus Buckworth for the cure of consumptions, coughs, catarrhs and strongness of breath”,’ he read in a yell that drew a good deal of attention from passers-by. ‘You call that news, L’Estrange?’

The tall man whipped around to face him, while Chaloner noted wryly that, for all London’s vast size — it was by far the biggest city in the civilised world — it was still a small place in many ways. Ellis had mentioned a newsbook editor called L’Estrange, and suddenly, here he was. Not wanting to be caught in the middle of a spat that looked set to turn violent, Chaloner stepped into an alley, joining a soot-faced lad who was disposing of a bucket of coffee-grounds there. The youth scattered his reeking, gritty pile by kicking it, and the stench of decay told Chaloner that the lane had been used as a depository for the Rainbow’s unwanted by-products for years. The coffee-boy pulled a pipe from his pocket and watched with interest as L’Estrange strode towards his tormentor.

‘That particular notice had nothing to do with me,’ he snarled. ‘My assistant inserted it without my knowledge.’

‘I see,’ drawled the yellow-wigged man, exchanging a smirk with his dashing companion. ‘So, you admit you have no control over what is published in your newsbooks, do you? That explains a good deal — such as why they contain all manner of dross about the Swiss ambassador’s dinner in Paris, but nothing about the dealings of our own government.’

The coffee-boy grinned conspiratorially, and nudged Chaloner with his elbow. ‘They have been at it all morning,’ he whispered.

‘At what?’

‘Squabbling. L’Estrange edits the newsbooks — although they hold little to interest the educated man, except their lists of recently stolen horses; the rest is given over to L’Estrange’s tirades against phanatiques. The fat fellow with the yellow wig is Henry Muddiman.’

‘Who is Muddiman?’ asked Chaloner, aware, even as he spoke, that this was a question which exposed him as an outsider. Unfortunately, it was true. His postings to spy overseas, first for Cromwell and then for the King, meant the time he had spent in London was limited to a few weeks. He was a stranger in his own land, which was sometimes a serious impediment to his work. He knew he could rectify the situation — but only if his masters would stop sending him abroad.

‘Muddiman was L’Estrange’s predecessor at the newsbooks,’ explained the coffee-boy, looking at him askance. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Chaloner, frowning as vague memories of the man’s name and the nature of his business began to surface. Muddiman had produced newsbooks during the Commonwealth, and the King had kept him on after the Restoration. ‘I remember now.’

‘Muddiman was ousted for political reasons, and the pair now hate each other with a passion. These days, Muddiman produces newsletters, which are different to newsbooks, as you will know.’ The lad shot Chaloner another odd glance, not sure if he was assuming too much.

‘Newsbooks are printed,’ supplied Chaloner, to show he was not totally clueless. ‘Newsletters are handwritten. Printed material is subject to government censorship; handwritten material is not.’

‘Precisely — which means the newsletters are a lot more interesting to read. Of course, Muddiman’s epistles are expensive — more than five pounds a year! — but they contain real information for the discerning gentleman.’

From the way he spoke, Chaloner surmised that the boy considered himself familiar with ‘real information’. He was probably right: coffee houses were hubs of news and gossip, and working in one doubtless meant the youth was one of the best informed people in the city. Chaloner edged deeper into the shadows when L’Estrange drew his sword.

‘L’Estrange should learn to control his temper,’ the boy went on, his tone disapproving. ‘One does not debate with weapons, not at the Rainbow. We deplore that sort of loutishness, which is why he has been asked to leave. And Muddiman should not have followed him outside, either, because now L’Estrange will try to skewer him. You just watch and see if I am right.’

‘You speak as much rubbish as you print,’ said Muddiman, addressing his rival disdainfully. Chaloner was not sure he would have adopted such an attitude towards a man with a drawn sword, especially one who was clearly longing to put it to use. ‘You are nothing but wind.’

‘You insolent-’ L’Estrange’s wild lunge was blocked by Muddiman’s companion, and their two blades slid up each other in a squeal of protesting metal. The Rainbow’s patrons had seen what was happening through the windows, and friends hurried out to separate the combatants.

The coffee-boy tutted. ‘There is not enough room in London for two greedy, ambitious newsmongers. One of them will be dead before the year is out, you mark my words.’

Bells were ringing all over the city, from the great bass toll of St Paul’s Cathedral to the musical jangle of St Clement Danes, as Chaloner resumed his walk to White Hall. He threaded his way through the inevitable congestion at Temple Bar — the narrow gate that divided Fleet Street from The Strand — and headed for Charing Cross. Carriages with prancing horses ferried courtiers and officials between state duties and their fine residences, although judging from the dissipated appearance of some passengers, the duties had been more closely allied to a night of debauchery than to papers and committees.

Chaloner turned south along King Street, and entered the palace by the main gate. The porter was reading a leaflet that condemned the immoral activities that took place in and around Smithfield. However, seeing the rapt gleam in the man’s eye, Chaloner suspected the lurid descriptions of the various vices on offer would do more to encourage the fellow to visit the area than to arouse any feelings of righteous distaste. Indeed, having scanned a few of the phrases on the back, Chaloner was tempted to go himself.

Once the porter had waved him through the gate, Chaloner’s first inclination was to hunt out Maylord. The musician’s letter had bothered him, and he wanted to know what had prompted the old man to pen such an urgent-sounding missive. But White Hall thrived on gossip, and the Earl of Clarendon would not be pleased to hear from some tattling official that his spy had finally returned home and had not made him his first port of call. So, as duty had to come before meeting old friends, Chaloner made his way to the Stone Gallery.

The Stone Gallery was a long corridor at the heart of White Hall. Its floor comprised sandstone slabs, like a cloister, and its arched windows further enhanced its monastic ambience. Its occupants put paid to any illusion of monkish virtue, though. The room rang with coarse laughter, because someone was telling an improbably lewd tale about the Duke of Buckingham’s latest conquest. Some nobles wandered about in night-gowns and bed-caps, affecting exaggerated yawns to let everyone know they had been out carousing the night before. Others were dressed, but their clothes were so laden with ruffles, lace and pleats that even the more temperate of them looked debauched.

Chaloner walked the length of the chamber looking for his Earl, nodding to the occasional acquaintance, but the Lord Chancellor was not among the chattering throng, so he went to his offices instead. These comprised a suite of rooms overlooking the elegantly manicured Privy Garden. In a small, windowless room that was more cupboard than chamber sat the Earl’s secretary, John Bulteel, copying figures of expenditure into a ledger. Bulteel was a timid, unhealthy-looking clerk who rarely spoke above a whisper and who always seemed on the verge of exhaustion. He smiled when he saw Chaloner, revealing brown, crooked teeth that probably gave him a lot of trouble.

‘The Earl is not here, Heyden,’ he said. ‘It is Sunday.’

Thomas Heyden was Chaloner’s favourite alias, and one he always used at Court. Because his uncle had been one of the men who had signed the first King Charles’s death warrant, Chaloner was a name best kept quiet until the frenzy of hatred against the regicides had faded. ‘Is he at church, then?’ he asked. ‘Should I return tomorrow?’

‘No, he will certainly want to see you today. He had your letter telling him you would be home before the end of the month, and said it would not be a moment too soon. He did not expect the Queen’s business to take quite so long, and is not very pleased about it, to be frank.’

‘He told me to go,’ objected Chaloner. ‘I wanted to stay in London.’

‘I know that, but he resents the fact that you were not here when he needed you.’ Bulteel raised his hand when the spy started to protest again. ‘It is unfair, and I am not saying he is right — I am just warning you that you may face a cool reception when you meet. Do you remember where he lives? In the building called Worcester House on The Strand. You cannot miss it — it is a great Tudor monstrosity with some part that is always falling down.’

Chaloner was startled by the elaborate description of a house he had visited dozens of times. ‘I have only been gone four months, Bulteel — not long enough to forget that sort of thing.’

Bulteel gave his wan, unhappy smile. ‘It feels more like four years, but then time passes so slowly here, especially when His Lordship is suffering from the gout. It makes him terribly irritable.’

Grimly, Chaloner recalled that gout made the Lord Chancellor a lot more than just ‘irritable’. ‘He has been venting his temper on you, has he? Because he is unwell?’

Bulteel winced. ‘His ailment has not plagued him as badly as it did in the winter, but his temper has not improved, even so. Watch what you say, and try not to be insolent if you can help it. You have a cynical tongue, and he is less inclined to overlook that sort of thing when his legs are hurting.’

As Chaloner turned to leave, the glitter of gold caught his eye; something had fallen between the wall and the table. When he bent to retrieve it, he found himself holding an elaborate pendant, which was studded with jewels that were probably rubies. He handed it to the clerk.

‘I imagine someone will be missing this. Is it yours?’

Bulteel gazed at it in astonishment. ‘It is Lady Clarendon’s love locket! She lost it last week, and the Earl and I spent hours hunting for it. Eventually, he decided it must have been stolen. Well, actually, he thought I had taken it, if you want the truth. They will both be pleased to see it safe.’

‘The Earl will owe you an apology when you give it back, then.’

Bulteel regarded it wistfully. ‘I doubt he will bother. But you found it, so you should be the one to take the credit for its discovery. It will earn you his good graces.’

‘Do you think I need his good graces?’ asked Chaloner, shaking his head when the secretary attempted to pass the bauble back again. He did not want to walk out of White Hall with a valuable piece of jewellery; it was the sort of thing that landed men in trouble.

Bulteel smiled sadly. ‘We all do. This is White Hall, after all.’

Chaloner was crossing the expanse of open space called the Palace Court, intending to visit Worcester House straight away, when he saw a man called Thomas Greeting, who basked in the lofty title of Musician in Ordinary to the King’s Private Music. Greeting was a handsome, grey-haired fellow in his forties, whose splendid attire and confident swagger made him more courtier than entertainer. He was in great demand as tutor to the wealthy, because he specialised in teaching the flageolet, which was an easy instrument to master. He was ambitious, greedy and Chaloner considered him deceitful.

‘Heyden,’ said Greeting pleasantly. ‘What news?’

‘What news?’ was the accepted salute for anyone entering a coffee-house, and Chaloner supposed the musician was showing himself to be a man of culture by using it. He did notice, however, that Greeting’s clothes were showing signs of wear up close, and that his elegant shoes needed re-heeling.

‘I hear Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges are good for ensuring sweetness of the breath,’ he replied flippantly, thinking about the altercation outside the Rainbow Coffee House.

Greeting raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been reading the newsbooks, have you? It is scandalous that L’Estrange is allowed to fill them with rubbish such as that — men do spend hard-earned cash on the things, after all. Not me, of course. I cannot afford such luxuries, not on the salary White Hall pays me. I am all but destitute, if you want the truth.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Chaloner knew how he felt — his own worldly wealth at that moment comprised sixpence. He only hoped the clerks at the Accompting House — who did not work on Sundays — would not be difficult when he went to claim his back-pay the following morning.

‘I live in constant fear of arrest for debt,’ Greeting went on bitterly. ‘And I have been forced to move from my lovely house near Lambeth Palace to a hovel in Smithfield. Still, such is the lot of a lowly Court musician.’

‘Speaking of musicians, have you seen Maylord today? He wants to meet me.’

Greeting’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been away? Yes, you must have been, because I have not seen you since that trouble involving the barber-surgeons last spring. You had some sort of set-to with Spymaster Williamson, and then you very wisely disappeared.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘You think I ran away?’

Greeting shrugged. ‘I would, had I incurred Williamson’s displeasure. Our new Spymaster is not a man to cross, and folk do so at their peril. Several bold fellows are now banished to remote villages for speaking their minds, although at least they are alive to reflect on their folly. Not all his enemies are allowed to live, so I have heard.’

‘Williamson kills men he does not like?’ Chaloner was not sure he believed it. Spymasters were powerful men, with a lot of dubious resources at their fingertips, but only a very stupid one would use them for personal vendettas, and Williamson was far from stupid.

Greeting looked uncomfortable. ‘We should not be discussing such a topic, especially in White Hall. Nonetheless, I urge you to be careful. He does not like you — I heard him say so myself.’

‘That was indiscreet of him,’ said Chaloner disapprovingly. He could not imagine Cromwell’s old Spymaster, John Thurloe, ever making such a comment in front of a loose-tongued man like Greeting. Of course, Thurloe’s attitude to his work had been efficient and professional, and Williamson fell far short by comparison. ‘What did he say, exactly?’

Greeting shrugged. ‘Just that you were involved in the untimely death of a friend, and he resents you for it. I would stay low, if I were you.’

Chaloner hoped the Earl’s next commission would allow him to do so. And while it was true that one of Williamson’s cronies had met a violent end in Chaloner’s company, it had not been the spy’s fault. He felt it was unreasonable of Williamson to blame him for the mishap.

‘Maylord,’ he prompted. ‘Does he still live on Thames Street?’

Greeting frowned. ‘I had forgotten you and he were acquainted. He taught your father the viol, I understand, and was kind to you when you first arrived in London. He was a good man, and we all miss him. He died on Friday.’

Chaloner stared at him in shock. ‘No! I do not believe you.’

Greeting’s expression was sympathetic. ‘It is true, although I sincerely wish it were otherwise. He died of eating cucumbers.’

Chaloner gaped at him. Like all Englishmen, he knew cucumbers could be dangerous when eaten raw, but he had never heard of anyone actually dying from them. And surely Maylord could not be dead? Chaloner had known him all his life, and loved the old man’s sweet temper and innate decency. ‘He died on Friday?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

‘Friday evening. He had been asking after you, too.’

‘Asking after me when? The day he died?’

Greeting shook his head. ‘Earlier — when he and I performed in Smithfield last Wednesday. He wanted to know if I had seen you, and was oddly distressed when I told him I had not.’

‘Do you know why?’

Greeting shook his head again. ‘But something was troubling the poor old devil, and it is a pity you were not here, because he clearly needed a friend. What do you think was upsetting him? Something to do with his music?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Chaloner, wishing with all his heart that he had been on hand to answer the old man’s call for help. His fingers curled tightly around the letter in his pocket. ‘And now I probably never will.’

Greeting was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. ‘He recently left his Thames Street cottage and took rooms at the Rhenish Wine House in Westminster. He said his move was a secret, and his closest friend — who you will recall is old Smegergill the virginals player — said he would not even tell him where he had gone.’

‘Yet he told you?’ asked Chaloner, rather sceptically. He still found it hard to believe that Maylord would have chosen Greeting as a confidant.

Greeting was offended. ‘Maylord liked me. When I asked him why he had left Thames Street, he told me he wanted to be nearer White Hall, but I am sure he was not telling the truth. I suspect it was all connected to whatever was bothering him.’

Chaloner regarded him unhappily. Maylord had loved his house, and would not have left it without good cause. The spy was deeply sorry that his friend had spent his last few days in a state of such agitation.

‘I had better go,’ said Greeting, when Chaloner did not speak. ‘The King has invited a party of mathematicians to meet him, and my consort — the little group of musicians under my direction — has been hired to play for the occasion. There is a fear that these worthy scientists may become tongue-tied with awe in His Majesty’s presence, and we are commissioned to fill any awkward silences with timely noise.’

Chaloner watched him go, feeling grief settle in the pit of his stomach. He felt something else, too — resentment that circumstances had prevented him from being there for Maylord, and guilt that he had let down a friend. He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to his White Hall duties, and the Earl.

He left the palace, and headed for The Strand, where the south side of the road was lined with handsome mansions, and the north side was faced with shops and mean dwellings of the kind that were owned by the poorer kind of tradesmen. Worcester House was not the finest home in the area, but it was smart enough to provide an imposing residence for a lord chancellor. It was mostly Tudor, boasting a forest of twisted, ornamental chimney-pots, stone mullions that were stained black with age, and a massive iron-studded gate.

Chaloner walked up the path, which was bordered by viciously trimmed little hedges, and knocked on the door. He was shown into a pleasant, lavender-scented chamber overlooking the gardens and asked to wait. He expected the Earl to finish what he was doing before deigning to meet a mere retainer, and was surprised when the great man bustled in just a few moments later.

England’s Lord Chancellor was a fussy, pedantic man, whose prim morals did not make him popular with the dissipated Court; the younger nobles mocked his prudery, and he had earned himself a reputation for being a killjoy. His appearance did not help, either: he was short, fat and wore overly ornate clothes that did not suit his stout frame. He had grown bigger since Chaloner had left for Lisbon, a result of a sedentary lifestyle and the Court’s rich food. That morning, he wore a massive blond periwig, with a dark red coat and matching satin breeches. Lace foamed at his neck, partly concealing his array of chins.

‘Heyden!’ he cried, touching the spy’s shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. Yet as soon as it was made, he seemed to regret it, because he became businesslike and aloof. ‘When did you return?’

‘Last night, sir, but too late to visit you. You would have been in bed.’

‘I doubt it,’ replied Clarendon, indicating his spy was to sit next to him on the window-seat. ‘I am up all hours with affairs of state. Do you recall that feud I was having with the Earl of Bristol? Well, after you had gone, he tried to impeach me in Parliament! He accused me of all manner of false crimes, but the House of Lords saw through his lies, and he is now banished to France.’

Chaloner nodded. He had heard the stories on his way home, and had been pleased: the flight of Bristol would mean one fewer enemy for him to worry about when he resumed the business of protecting his Earl.

‘My fortunes are on the rise again, thank God,’ Clarendon went on. ‘But unfortunately, my other foes — namely the Duke of Buckingham and the King’s favourite mistress — wait like vultures for me to make a mistake.’

Chaloner was not surprised; the Earl’s aloof manners had earned him a lot of enemies in White Hall. ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘Today, however,’ said the Earl with an unfriendly look, ‘we had better talk about you. You abandoned me shamefully in June. The Queen summoned you to meet her, and you accepted the assignment she offered without once asking me whether it was convenient for you to go.’

Chaloner was taken aback by this version of events. ‘That is not quite true, sir. I told Her Majesty that I was not the right man for the task she had in mind, and pointed out that I had duties here in London, but you ordered me to do as she asked.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘Well, of course I did when she was there, man! She asked if she might borrow you, and I could hardly refuse the request of a queen, could I? I am the Lord Chancellor, for God’s sake — a servant of the Crown. However, you should have thought of a reason to decline, and I am angry that you did not bother. I feel it was a betrayal.’

Chaloner suspected the Earl saw betrayal everywhere after what he had been through with Bristol. But what had happened in June was not his fault, and he felt he was being unfairly accused.

‘I did not ask to be summoned by her. I did not ask to go to Lisbon, either.’

Clarendon continued to glare. ‘She noticed you because you had the audacity to smile at her on an occasion when she felt the city was hostile towards her. She asked your name, and I just happened to mention that you knew Portuguese — her native language — as a point of conversation. I did not imagine for a moment that she would demand your services. It was not what I intended at all.’

‘No, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking the Earl should have kept his mouth shut about his servant’s skills, if he had not wanted him poached.

‘And then news came about a fierce battle between Portugal and Spain, and she decided she needed intelligence from her own agent, a man she could trust. So off you went. She was pleased by what you did, by the way — uncovering that treacherous duke, who was undermining Portugal by feeding secrets to Spain — and I confess your reports were useful to me in determining certain points of foreign policy. But you should not have gone. I needed you here.’

Chaloner recalled the speed with which he had been dispatched — less than an hour to return to his lodgings, pack a few essentials and board the Lisbon-bound ship. He had rushed his preparations, because he had wanted a few moments to scribble a brief message to John Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn — what the Queen had asked him to do was fraught with peril, and he had wanted one friend to know what had happened to him, in case he failed to return. He had been right to take such a precaution, because the escapade had transpired to be one of the most dangerous things he had ever done. And in an occupation like his, where risk was an everyday occurrence, that was saying a good deal.

‘You arranged my passage on that particular boat, sir,’ he pointed out, stubbornly refusing to accept all the blame. ‘Had you chosen a later one, we could have discussed-’

The Earl’s scowl deepened. ‘Lord, you are insolent! I am angry with you, but do you attempt to placate me with some suitable grovelling? No! You antagonise me with impudent observations about my past actions. I imagine you expect me to employ you again, but I am not sure I want a man who so eagerly races off to do the bidding of someone else.’

‘But you told me to go,’ objected Chaloner, becoming alarmed. Because he had been a spy for Cromwell’s regime, the King’s government was wary of him, and would never employ him in its intelligence service. Luckily, the Earl was capable of recognising talent when he saw it, and was willing to overlook former allegiances. However, if he changed his mind, then Chaloner was in trouble, because no one else would hire him, and he was qualified to do very little else. ‘Indeed, you ordered it.’

‘As I said, I assumed you would be clever enough to devise an excuse that would keep you at my side,’ snapped the Earl. ‘I suppose you were seduced by the money she gave you for your expenses, and by the reward she promised you on your return.’

‘Speaking of which, I have sixpence left. Do you think you could arrange an audience with her? The rent is overdue and the cupboard is bare.’

Clarendon looked a little spiteful. ‘Her Majesty is unwell, and the physicians are not letting anyone see her at the moment, so you will have to wait. Let us hope her illness does not cause her to forget her promises. It would be a pity to have risked your life and livelihood for a profit of sixpence.’

Chaloner decided he had better change the subject before the disagreement saw him in even deeper water. ‘Your secretary says there is something you would like me to do, sir. How may I help?’

‘Does he indeed?’ muttered the Earl venomously. ‘Well, there is something, as it so happens.’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner, when his master did not elaborate.

The Earl waved his hand carelessly. Chaloner had learned this was a bad sign, and that a dismissive flap from the Lord Chancellor invariably meant his spy was going to be asked to do something that was dangerous, only marginally legal, or both.

‘Have you heard about the new-style government newsbooks that came into being in August? One is called The Intelligencer, and it is published on Mondays. The other is called The Newes, and it comes out on Thursdays. They are edited by a man named L’Estrange, and Londoners complain that they are characterised by a marked absence of domestic news.’

‘Before I left, the newsbooks had different names, and were edited by Henry Muddiman.’

‘Things change fast in London,’ said Clarendon pointedly. ‘Sneak away for four months, and you will return to find nothing as you left it. But we are supposed to be talking about my business, not yours. The Intelligencer and The Newes superseded Muddiman’s publications, and they are now the only two newsbooks in the country. Spymaster Williamson appointed L’Estrange to edit them. He made him Surveyor of the Press, too.’

‘The posts of official censor and chief journalist are held by the same man?’ Chaloner tried not to sound shocked. It was a deplorable state of affairs, because it meant any ‘intelligence’ or ‘newes’ printed would be what the government had decided the public could have. He was surprised Williamson had been allowed to get away with it. However, it certainly explained why the newsbooks contained nothing of home affairs — the government did not want people to know what it was up to.

The Earl shot him a rueful glance. ‘It was not my idea, I assure you. Of course I am happy for the general populace to be kept in the dark about matters it cannot possibly comprehend, but this is too brazen an approach. And it is having a negative effect, in that anything we publish now is automatically regarded as political propaganda and is taken with a pinch of salt.’

‘And rightly so, because that is exactly what it will be. Williamson’s decision is a foolish one. A man of his intellect should know better.’

The Earl sighed. ‘Williamson ousted Muddiman with a shocking bit of deviousness, and appointed L’Estrange in his place. L’Estrange is totally loyal to the government, but he is too opinionated to be a good journalist. Muddiman is a far better newsman, and we should have left him alone.’

‘I saw Muddiman and L’Estrange arguing today, about whether an advertisement for lozenges can be classified as an item of news.’

‘I am not surprised — Muddiman has high standards of news-telling, while L’Estrange will include anything that uses up space. They differ fundamentally.’

‘What exactly would you like me to do, sir?’

‘L’Estrange visited me on Wednesday, and said one of his newsbook minions — a fellow called Thomas Newburne — is dead under peculiar circumstances. I would like you to look into the matter.’

Chaloner did not think that was a good idea. ‘If Newburne was working for L’Estrange, then it means he was a government employee and his death will come under Spymaster Williamson’s jurisdiction. Williamson already dislikes me, and will be angry if I interfere.’

‘I am the Lord Chancellor of England, so you will interfere if I tell you to,’ snapped Clarendon. ‘I do not care if Williamson is angry or not. Besides, I am sure he will conduct his own enquiry.’

‘Will he not share his conclusions with you?’

‘I would not trust them if he did,’ snorted the Earl. ‘The more I learn about Williamson, the less I respect his judgement. He is too devious for his own good, and I do not approve of him dismissing a respected newsman like Muddiman or the dual appointment he foisted on L’Estrange.’

‘L’Estrange could have refused one of them.’

‘You do not “refuse” Williamson! Besides, I do not think L’Estrange has very good judgement, either. I like the man, and consider him an ally, but he is not very sensible.’

Sensible men did not draw their swords as a means to resolving arguments, so Chaloner suspected the Earl was right. He considered the ‘minion’ whose death he was supposed to investigate. ‘What happened to Newburne? How did he die?’

‘He passed away at the Smithfield Market. Have you heard of it?’

‘Of course,’ replied Chaloner, startled by the question.

The Earl grimaced. ‘You have spent so much time away that you seem more foreigner than Englishman most of the time. But let us return to Smithfield. Apart from being a venue for selling livestock, especially horses, it is also an area of great vice, where criminals roam in gangs. The biggest and most powerful clan calls itself the Hectors.’

Chaloner was not sure what the Earl was trying to tell him. ‘Newburne was killed by Hectors?’

‘Actually, no — at least, I do not think so. I was just trying to give you an impression of the area in which you will be working. Newburne was not killed by louts, as far as I understand the situation. He was killed by cucumbers.’

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled in confusion. Surely it was unusual for two people to expire from ingesting cucumbers in such a short period of time — Newburne on Wednesday and Maylord two days later? Had a bad batch been hawked around London, or were Newburne and Maylord just gluttons for that particular fruit? He was careful to keep his expression neutral — no good spy ever revealed what he was thinking — as he continued to question Clarendon.

‘Have you heard of any other cases of cucumber poisoning recently, sir?’

The Earl raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘No, but we all know they should be avoided, and I cannot imagine why Newburne should have been scoffing one. They are nasty, bitter things.’

‘Have there been any other odd deaths lately, then?’ Chaloner pressed. ‘Inexplicable or-’

‘Of course there have! This is London, and people die of strange things all the time. Why are you asking such questions? It is Newburne I want you to explore, not the entire city.’

‘Because Newburne’s death may not be an isolated event, especially if L’Estrange and Muddiman are embroiled in a feud. If there have been other incidents, it would be helpful to know about them before I start investigating.’

‘I am sure L’Estrange would have mentioned other unusual deaths, if there were any. However, you will find Newburne’s demise is an isolated event, so do not make it more complex than it is.’

‘Why do you want to know what happened to Newburne, sir?’ Chaloner’s instincts — usually reliable — told him the Earl was holding something back. However, if he was going to be trespassing on Williamson’s territory, then he needed the whole truth. ‘Because of your friendship with L’Estrange? Because you want to antagonise Williamson? Or is there another reason?’

The Earl grimaced. ‘Your blunt tongue will land you in serious trouble one day, Heyden. It is a good thing you are not a politician — you would be dead or disgraced in a week.’

‘Newburne, sir,’ prompted Chaloner, refusing to be sidetracked.

The Earl sighed in a long-suffering manner. ‘Very well. During the wars, L’Estrange published some pro-Royalist pamphlets at considerable risk — and expense — to himself. He helped our cause immeasurably then, and I would like to return the favour now. I always remember my friends.’

There was a hesitancy in his reply that told Chaloner he still did not have the complete answer, but there was only so far he could push the man. ‘Will you tell me what you know about Newburne?’

‘He was a solicitor, employed by L’Estrange to hunt out illegal publications. You must have heard of him. It was he who brought about the saying “Arise, Tom Newburne”.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What does that mean?’

The Earl became prissy. ‘I use it as an expletive, although I avoid foul language, as a rule.’

‘That is foul language?’

‘Yes, when spoken with feeling,’ replied Clarendon tartly. ‘And please do not offer to teach me a few epithets you consider more apposite, because coarse swearing is anathema to me.’

The interview was becoming a bit of a trial, and Chaloner was still tired after his long journey. Manfully, he tried to stifle his exasperation. ‘Is there anything else?’

Clarendon rattled on as if he had not spoken. ‘I am surprised you have never come across the saying, although I suppose you have not had much chance to familiarise yourself with London customs, given that you have not deigned to live here for more than a few weeks in the last decade. But what else can I tell you about Newburne? He was about fifty years of age, and very corrupt. He was unethical in a number of ways, but one of his most brazen was in taking bribes from printers and booksellers to keep quiet about pamphlets published without a royal license. Oh, and he had no hair.’

It was a curious combination of facts. ‘Did you know him personally?’

Clarendon waved the fat hand again. ‘I met him once or twice when I visited L’Estrange. His funeral is on Thursday, so you do not have many days, should you wish to inspect the corpse.’

‘So, you think he was murdered,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘You do not think the cucumber killed him, or you would not suggest I examine the body.’

Clarendon frowned at the remark. ‘I do not know if he died naturally, Heyden — that is what I want you to find out. Of course, you must ask your questions discreetly, because, as you pointed out, Williamson will not appreciate us interfering with a government investigation.’

Chaloner tried one last time to elicit the whole truth from the man. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’

‘No,’ said the Earl briskly. He stood and rubbed his hands together; Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a more furtive gesture. ‘You will want to question L’Estrange, of course, but you cannot barge in unannounced, so tell him you have just returned from Spain and Portugal, and that you have intelligence for his newsbooks. You must have learned something there that English readers will find interesting.’

Chaloner was pleasantly surprised. It was a good idea, and would allow him access to Newburne’s place of work without arousing suspicion. ‘I can think of a few odds and ends.’

‘Good, although it would be a kindness to the government if these “odds and ends” were actually true. It is embarrassing when a snippet of information is printed, and it later transpires to be a lie — these things are difficult to deny once they are in the public domain, you see. And there is just one more thing before you go.’

‘Sir?’ Chaloner did not like the sly expression on the Lord Chancellor’s face.

‘L’Estrange is a man of fierce passions, and he despises phanatiques most of all.’

‘Fanatics?’

‘Meaning Puritans, Roundheads and regicides. So, watch what you tell him about yourself.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘I am none of those things, sir — especially the latter.’

‘But your uncle was a king-killer, and the Chaloner clan is still full of dedicated Parliamentarians. No one in London knows your real name except me, Thurloe and your friend William Leybourn. Make sure it stays that way, because L’Estrange will kill you if he finds out who you are.’

‘He is welcome to try,’ muttered Chaloner.

The Earl did not hear him. ‘You can start your investigation tomorrow. L’Estrange’s offices are on Ivy Lane — that is near St Paul’s, in case you do not know — and he will be open for business at dawn. Do not forget to keep me informed.’

Chaloner left Worcester House with a vague sense of unease. He was not particularly worried about L’Estrange, but he did not like the notion that there was something he was not being told. Was the Earl deliberately sending him half-prepared into a dangerous situation, to punish him for serving the Queen? Chaloner wanted to believe the Lord Chancellor was above such pettiness, but found he was unable to do so.