The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 5

Chaloner climbed to his feet, wincing at the sharp ache in his head as he moved. It was pitch black in the churchyard, but when he removed his hat, his probing fingers detected a substantial dent in the protective metal. The robbers would be astonished to learn he had survived such a solid clout. He stood still for a few moments, willing the dizziness to recede, then began to search for Smegergill.

It did not take him long to locate the old man. He tripped over him in the dark, where he was lying face-down in a puddle. He hauled him up quickly, but Smegergill was already dead. Chaloner felt sick with self-recrimination. It was his fault the musician had embarked on a futile search for a carriage in the dead of night, and then he had failed to protect him. He closed his eyes, disgusted with himself. St Bartholomew’s was in Smithfield, and he had been listening to tales about the dangers of that place all day. How could he have been so stupid? Furthermore, a man with his skills and experience should never have allowed a gang of common louts to best him. He pulled the body into a faint shaft of light from the road, and saw a cut on Smegergill’s lip. Had someone lobbed a stone at him, too, then pressed his face into water until he had stopped struggling?

Recalling how he had been searched for valuables, he tried to locate Smegergill’s purse, and was surprised when he found it still attached to his belt. It was empty except for a key. The thieves had also missed a heavy — and doubtless valuable — ring that Smegergill had been wearing on his index finger. Chaloner did not intend to remove it, but it slid off into his hand when he tried to inspect it. As he gazed numbly at it, he tried to work out what had happened. Sensibly, the robbers had dealt with their younger, stronger victim first, so it was no surprise that Chaloner had been stripped of his possessions immediately — or would have been, had he owned anything worth taking — before they had turned to Smegergill. So why had Smegergill been left with his ring and purse? Had the felons been disturbed before they could finish? Chaloner had not heard a third party arrive, but that was not surprising, given that he had been barely conscious at the time.

Nearby voices made him jump in alarm. Should he shout for help, or were the robbers returning to end what they had started? His head pounded, and he doubted he would emerge triumphant from another skirmish. Of course, the voices could belong to people who would help him carry Smegergill to a church and send for the parish constable. Unfortunately, though, he suspected they were more likely to draw entirely the wrong conclusion from a man kneeling next to a corpse, and accuse him of the murder instead. He scrambled to his feet when a man and a woman stepped into the churchyard with a lantern, apparently intent on finding a dry spot for a romp.

The man stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Chaloner, and his eyes were drawn to the still figure on the ground. ‘What have you done?’ he cried, beginning to back away.

Instinctively, Chaloner donned his hat. It was partly to stop the light from lancing into his eyes, but also to conceal his face. He could predict from the tone of the question how the encounter was likely to end, and did not want the fellow or his lady to be able to identify him later. He had enough to do, without being obliged to prove his innocence for a crime he had not committed.

‘He has a ring,’ shouted the woman. The fact that she had noticed such a detail in the dim lamplight indicated she was the kind of person who would be more interested in what happened to Smegergill’s belongings than his earthly remains. ‘He is going to steal it. Robbery!’

‘Murder!’ yelled her friend. ‘Call the Hectors! They will not like this!’

There was no point in Chaloner trying to tell his own side of the story, and the fact that the Hectors were going to be summoned before the official forces of law and order did not bode well. People were beginning to rally to their howls — he could see torches bobbing on the street. There was really only one thing to do. Chaloner turned and ran.

He blundered through the dark trees, branches clawing at him as he went. He tried to move faster, but was unsteady on his feet and could not make the kind of speed he needed to escape. Meanwhile, his pursuers knew the lie of the land, and they had lamps to guide them. They were gaining, and it was only a matter of time before they would have him. And then they would kill him, because they would be inflamed by the thrill of the chase, and he doubted they would be interested in listening to reason.

He was on the verge of turning to face them — he still had a dagger, and would not go without a fight — when he lost his footing on the slippery ground. He started to slide downwards, wincing when he twisted his left leg, which had not been right since it had been injured in the Battle of Naseby almost twenty years before. He landed with a splash in a deep ditch. He imagined it usually ran dry, but that night it was swollen from the rain and a powerful current began to tug him towards a culvert. He could have extricated himself without too much difficulty, but that would have put him in the hands of his pursuers, so he let the water sweep him into a low tunnel. He stopped it from taking him too far into the darkness, because he did not know where it went, and he had no wish to share Smegergill’s fate and drown. At the entrance, he saw torches bobbing as people searched for him.

He held his breath when he heard dogs barking, but the rain and the stream meant tracking him was impossible, and it was not long before the hunters’ determination to catch him wavered before the prospect of a fire and a jug of hot ale. He waded to the entrance, checked the coast was clear, and scrambled up a bank that was thick with brambles. When he reached the road, he turned up his collar and began to walk. He was cold, wet, his head and leg hurt, and he did not feel up to trudging all the way home to Fetter Lane, so he headed for a haven that was considerably closer: Leybourn’s house in Monkwell Street.

He tapped on the door and leaned against the wall, feeling exhaustion wash over him. There was no reply and the house was in darkness. He supposed Leybourn had gone to bed, and was on the verge of picking the lock to let himself in when he recalled that the surveyor now had a wife who might not appreciate an uninvited guest at such an hour. He knocked again, and eventually the door opened.

‘What do you want?’ came Mary’s disapproving voice. ‘It is close to ten o’clock, and decent folk are in bed. Have you no consideration?’

‘Who is it?’ called Leybourn, from the stairs. ‘Lord, help us, Mary! Have you actually opened the door? How many times have I warned you against that? You will have us both slaughtered in our beds, because no honest men call at this hour of the night.’

‘That is true,’ said Mary, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘It is your friend, Heyden. He is drunk, and I do not think we should let him in.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. His voice sounded hoarse and slurred to his own ears, so he did not like to imagine what Mary would make of it. ‘Is the vicar of St Giles’s here again, fretting about his Christmas decorations?’ He winced when a lamp was thrust towards him.

‘Christ, Tom!’ Leybourn sounded shocked. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Smegergill is dead,’ said Chaloner, aware that relief and tiredness were making him incoherent, but not really caring.

‘What is he talking about? Who is Smegergill?’ demanded Mary. She released a low screech of alarm when Chaloner pushed his way past her into the house. ‘He is covered in blood! He must have killed someone. Perhaps he will kill us, too!’

Leybourn half-dragged, half-carried Chaloner through the dark bookshop, clamouring for answers as he settled him next to the embers of the kitchen fire. Chaloner was simply too weary to reply. He closed his eyes.

When Chaloner regained his senses, he was in Leybourn’s favourite chair. He looked around, noting that the kitchen was no cleaner than the last time he had seen it, and that there was an unpleasant smell of burning. He jumped up in alarm when he saw someone had covered him with a blanket and stoked up the fire — and that he was gently smouldering. He quickly patted out the flames, wondering whether Mary had done it on purpose, to put him off making inconvenient visits in the future. It was a draconian measure, but she struck him as a woman who did not do things by halves.

He squinted against the light of the lamp and wondered how long he had been asleep. Leybourn was dozing in the chair opposite, while Mary was sitting at the kitchen table with a sour expression on her face. Chaloner supposed her displeasure derived from the fact that he had woken up before he had been incinerated. His movements disturbed the surveyor, who opened his eyes and took a deep, noisy breath. When Chaloner looked back at Mary, the sulky glare was gone and she was smiling sweetly.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked Chaloner politely. He was not deceived by her concern, but was determined he would not be the one to start an argument.

‘Better, thank you. What is the time?’

‘I heard the watchmen call four o’clock not long ago,’ she replied, in the same pleasant tone. ‘Will you be leaving soon, while it is still dark? I imagine you will not want anyone to see you.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Leybourn, looking from one to the other uncertainly.

‘The murder,’ said Mary, all quiet reason. ‘There is blood on him, and none of it is his own.’

Chaloner rubbed his head and tried to remember what had happened, but found his memory was hazy. ‘Smegergill is dead. He drowned when he was held face-down in a puddle.’

‘Who is Smegergill?’ asked Leybourn uneasily. ‘Who did this to you?’

‘Do not ask,’ advised Mary. ‘It is better we do not know, because knowledge of his crimes puts us at risk, and I have no wish to be hanged as his accomplice. Make him leave, William. You are not a carefree bachelor now. You have a responsibility to your dependents: me.’

Leybourn regarded her in anguish, and Chaloner saw the surveyor was hard-pressed to make the choice. Eventually, he swallowed hard. ‘You had better go to my brother, Mary. Rob will make sure none of this reflects on you.’

‘You choose him over me?’ she asked, aghast.

‘No,’ said Chaloner, standing up. ‘I should not have come. I was not thinking properly.’

‘You were not thinking at all,’ said Leybourn kindly. ‘You were dazed. But you are safe now, and we will ask no awkward questions — what we do not know, we cannot tell. Best say nothing, Tom.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ he objected, astonished to think Leybourn might imagine he had.

‘You killed someone,’ reiterated Mary. Her voice was harsh now she had won Leybourn to her way of thinking, and she was making no attempt to mask her dislike. ‘There is blood on your hands.’

Chaloner had a sudden, vivid recollection of almost severing a man’s finger, and gradually, the events of the night began to trickle back to him. ‘Smegergill and I were going to take a carriage to the Rhenish Wine House, but we were attacked outside St Bartholomew’s Church. I should have been able to repel them, but I failed. And Smegergill paid the price for my ineptitude.’

‘Smegergill was killed by robbers?’ asked Leybourn. He sounded relieved, and glanced at Mary, to make sure she had heard. ‘They must have been Hectors, since St Bartholomew’s is their domain.’

‘He knew my father,’ said Chaloner, realising he was not relating the tale in a logical order but unable to do much about it; his wits were still not functioning properly. ‘He was afraid the thieves were actually wardens, come to take him to Bedlam.’

‘Perhaps it was you they were after,’ muttered Mary.

Leybourn frowned a gentle admonishment at her, but the scowl dissolved when she treated him to a loving smile. The moment he turned back to Chaloner, she shot the spy a look of such blazing dislike that he recoiled. He was aware of similar feelings towards her, which surprised him, because it usually took longer for people to generate such strong emotions in him. He was sorry, because their antipathy towards each other was likely to end up causing Leybourn pain.

‘Why should Smegergill think he was bound for Bedlam?’ asked Leybourn. Mary made the kind of noise that said she was not going to listen to more lies, and went to the pantry. A few moments later came the sound of wine being decanted into a goblet. She did not come back, and Chaloner was relieved to speak to Leybourn alone.

‘He did not seem insane, but I am no judge of such matters.’ He rubbed his head again and sighed. ‘What am I saying? Of course he was not insane: he was one of His Majesty’s musicians, and the Court does not appoint lunatics to such posts. He was just forgetful, as the elderly are sometimes. He was telling me about some documents Maylord had found. Maylord was being cheated by someone.’

Leybourn frowned. ‘I think I follow you, although this is a garbled explanation, to put it mildly. Shall I send for a surgeon? Their hall is just across the road.’

‘No, thank you.’ Chaloner did not like surgeons. ‘But I cannot think properly, Will. It is all a blur, and I am not sure what really happened. There was a cut on Smegergill’s lip and he certainly drowned, but his purse was not stolen, and neither was his ring.’

‘Perhaps the robbers were disturbed before they could finish.’

‘That is what I thought, but no one came until later. And his empty purse is odd. We were going to hire a carriage, but he had no money.’

‘Maybe he thought you were going to pay,’ suggested Leybourn. ‘Or he forgot to fill it before he left home. Or the thieves took the coins and left the pouch. Or this was their first robbery, and they did not know what they were doing, although that is difficult to believe — the Hectors are usually very good at thievery. Did you see any of them? Could you identify them, if you saw them again?’

Chaloner touched the bruise on his jaw. ‘No. They threw a stone first, which slowed me down. That is not something inexperienced felons do. It meant I could not fight properly.’

‘Some of the Hectors carry slingshots, so I imagine that is what hit you. You are lucky to be alive, because it is not unknown for men to die after being struck by Smithfield-hurled missiles.’

Chaloner wondered whether that was what had happened to Smegergill. ‘I suppose someone took exception to my questions about Newburne, and decided they should end. Poor Smegergill made a fatal mistake when he agreed to catch a carriage with me. Mary is right: I did kill him.’

‘Easy,’ said Leybourn gently. ‘Do not jump to wild conclusions.’

But Chaloner was feeling wretched, sure the old man would still be alive if he had not been careless. It would not be an easy burden to bear for the rest of his life.

‘Williamson’s agent told me the government hires Hectors on occasion,’ he said, trying to pull himself together. The least he could do was ensure that Smegergill’s killers faced justice; brooding about his ineptitude could come later. ‘Perhaps Williamson wanted to stop me from investigating.’

‘Him and half of London. I am not keen on you unveiling the culprit myself — not for a snake like Newburne. You think it was you they wanted, then? You do not think it was a random attack?’

Chaloner thought about the interviews he had conducted that day. He had been warned away from the investigation by every person he had spoken to: L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna at the newsbook offices; Hodgkinson the printer; Hen Finch; Muddiman and Dury; and even Williamson’s man. Meanwhile, Crisp’s name had cropped up rather a lot, too.

‘I am sure Smegergill was about to tell me something important,’ he said bitterly. ‘I know he was. If only I had protected him properly.’

‘You are a good spy,’ said Leybourn soothingly. ‘You will discover whatever it was another way.’

It was not much of a consolation, especially for Smegergill. ‘I should be going,’ he said, when Mary returned with a cup of wine clasped in her plump fingers.

‘No,’ said Leybourn firmly. ‘You are still not right, and-’

‘Leave through the back door, please,’ said Mary. ‘It will be safer for us if you are not seen.’

‘Mary!’ cried Leybourn, distressed. ‘He must stay until daybreak. Supposing the Hectors are still looking for him? Supposing they try again?’

‘It would be a tragedy,’ said Mary flatly.

Leybourn shot her an agonised look, then turned to Chaloner, who was inspecting his dented hat. ‘She is jesting with you,’ he said with an unconvincing smile. ‘She is a great one for jokes, and we are always laughing together.’

Chaloner wondered how much Leybourn would laugh when he discovered her true character, because it was only a matter of time before the bedazzlement faded and the surveyor was exposed to what really lay beneath. He opened the door and stepped into the garden. The rain had stopped, and the early hour meant the air smelled of wet earth and damp leaves, coal fires and the reek of industry being doused for the night. He heard Leybourn and Mary exchanging low, angry words behind him, and was sorry he had brought discord to his friend’s house. When he turned, the surveyor had gone, and Mary was waiting, hands on hips, to make sure he really left. He moved towards her, making her flinch back in alarm.

‘Most people would summon a constable if they thought a killer was on their doorstep, but you only clamour for me to be gone. Now, why would you do that? Are you hiding from the law?’

She gaped at him. ‘How dare you! I am just trying to protect my husband.’

‘You are a liar, Mrs Leybourn. The truth is that you do not want a brush with the forces of law and order, not even to help the victim of an assault.’

She regarded him with a glittering hatred, and when she spoke her voice was a low, menacing hiss. ‘If you meddle in my affairs, I will see you dead. Now go, and do not come back. Not ever.’

Chaloner had never appreciated being threatened. ‘And what will you do if I refuse?’

She leaned towards him. ‘Ellis Crisp owes me a favour, and his Hectors will be more than willing to teach you a lesson. All I have to do is ask.’

The remark was more revealing than alarming, and Chaloner regarded her thoughtfully. ‘An underworld king is an odd acquaintance for a respectable woman, I would have thought. Perhaps I will ask questions in Smithfield, and see what I can learn about you.’

Mary’s face became ugly with rage. ‘If you try to interfere with my business, I will ensure you destroy your friend in the process. He is happy with me and I am content with him. But if you harm me, I will ruin him — financially and emotionally. And then Crisp will see you pay in ways you cannot possibly imagine.’

‘You would hurt the man you profess to love?’ Chaloner was disgusted.

‘If the alternative is losing a nice house, plenty of money and a life of leisure? What do you think?’

‘Tom!’ called Leybourn, appearing behind her, slightly breathless. He carried his second-best cloak. ‘This will keep you dry until you reach home. And here is a crown for a carriage, since your own money was stolen.’

Chaloner accepted the cloak but not the coin. Leybourn had one person who only wanted him for his wealth, and he did not need another like it. Without a word, he started to make his way home.

When he arrived in Fetter Lane, Chaloner lay on his bed and thought about Leybourn. Although the surveyor was clearly delighted to have secured himself a lady at last, it was not a happy union. There had been the uncharacteristic spat of temper when Leybourn had stormed out of Lincoln’s Inn, and he had also mentioned an inability to sleep. Chaloner wondered if he sensed that Mary was not as enamoured of him as he was of her — or even that her attachment was really to his money — but stubborn desperation prevented him from seeing the truth.

Should Chaloner do as he had threatened, and ask questions about Mary until he discovered her secrets? Thurloe would certainly encourage him to do so. Or should he stand back and wait for Leybourn to learn the truth himself? Leybourn was a grown man, so well able to make his own decisions. Or was he? Perhaps she had bewitched him, and he was no longer responsible for himself. Besides, interfering in matters that were none of his concern was how Chaloner made his living, and it was difficult to stand by and watch a friend make a terrible mistake. He decided he would add Mary Cade to his list of enquiries, and discover as much about her as he could. That made three investigations. He considered them in turn, aware that all had connections to the mysterious Crisp.

First, Mary claimed to know Ellis Crisp, bragging that she was in a position to order a repeat attack of the one that had almost killed Chaloner that night. Or was she just trying to unnerve him? He was not sure how to proceed with her, although a visit to Newgate was as good a place as any to start. He would make a sketch of her and show it to the guards, to see if they recognised her as a criminal. He had recently discovered a talent for drawing, and knew he could produce a reasonable likeness. He would need money to bribe them for information, though, so he would have to visit White Hall first, to collect his back-pay.

Secondly, there was his enquiry into Newburne’s death. Why had so many people advised him to abandon the investigation? They could not all have sinister reasons for doing so. He sensed the warnings of Brome, Joanna and Hodgkinson had been kindly meant, and so was Leybourn’s, but what about those issued by Muddiman, Dury, the booksellers and L’Estrange? Even Finch, Newburne’s friend, declared himself unwilling to look into the matter. Could Crisp, who was only a felon when all was said and done, really terrify so many people? Chaloner decided to ask Thurloe the following day. The ex-Spymaster was sure to have heard of such an infamous villain.

And finally, there was the smothering of Maylord. Maylord was linked to Crisp — albeit tangentially — because Chaloner had been attacked by Hectors while walking in Smithfield with Maylord’s friend. The villains had been quietly proficient, and had hauled him and Smegergill off the road and into the privacy of the churchyard with a minimum of commotion. He imagined it was exactly the kind of activity at which the legendary Hectors would excel. Was Crisp responsible, because he did not want Newburne’s death investigated? Or was it coincidence that the attack had occurred in Crisp’s domain? As soon as it was light, Chaloner decided to visit the Rhenish Wine House and find the documents Smegergill had mentioned — assuming they existed, and were not the product of a confused mind.

He went to the jug on the table and drank some water. His head ached and so did the bruise on his chin where the stone had struck him, and he knew his wits were still not properly clear. He thought about the attack, still sickened by his failure to protect Smegergill. What had the old man been going to tell him about Maylord being cheated? Had a vital clue about Maylord’s death been lost because of his own carelessness? He removed the ring and the key from his pocket, and stared at them. He knew he should not have taken them, because he now had the added responsibility of returning them to Smegergill’s next of kin — hopefully without being accused of the murder himself.

He went back to his bed, and jumped in alarm when the cat suddenly joined him there. He spent several minutes trying to oust it, but each time he shoved it away, it came back. In the end, he gave up, and allowed it to nestle in a warm ball at his side. It began to purr, and he supposed there was something comforting in the close presence of another living creature. Perhaps that was what Leybourn craved, and was why he was prepared to overlook Mary’s all too obvious failings. He wondered what the surveyor would say if his friends suggested replacing Mary with a cat.

Chaloner had not meant to sleep and was startled when he awoke to hear the church bells chiming eleven o’clock, horrified that so much of the day had been lost. It meant he would not be able to visit White Hall and claim his back-pay, because there were other duties that had to come first. His head ached when he sat up, but not as badly as it had done the night before. The pain made him irritable, though, and he swore under his breath when the cat jumped up on to the bed again. He grimaced in revulsion when he saw a mouse in its jaws, and tried to push it away. It deposited the corpse on the bedclothes and mewed in expectation of reward. It did not receive one, because Chaloner’s larder was bare, and he had nothing to give it.

His temper flared again when he went to fetch his sword from the pantry, and the animal tripped him by winding around his ankles. The stumble jarred his lame leg, which was still stiff from his slide into the ditch. All in all, it was not a good start to the day.

The clothes he had worn the previous night were wet, muddy and ripped, which was a problem, because they were the best he had. He picked through the others helplessly, eventually choosing a shirt that was yellow with age, and a pair of breeches he recalled wearing during the wars. His jaw was purple from its encounter with the stone, and it made him distinctive, which was always something he tried to avoid. So he darkened his stubble with soot from the chimney, then found a leather cap that hung low over his forehead and cheeks. Once he put Isabella’s dented hat on top, very little of his face was visible. He felt slovenly and disreputable, and the presence of a dead mouse in his pocket — ready to be tossed into the nearest gutter — did not help, but he supposed the garb would do for Newgate and the Rhenish Wine House, the latter of which he intended to enter without being seen.

In Fleet Street, he saw the Earl’s clerk, Bulteel, who shrieked in alarm when a scruffy man seized his shoulder and bade him good-day. He stopped abruptly when he recognised Chaloner’s grey eyes.

‘We should pay you more,’ he said shakily. ‘You look terrible.’

‘You should pay me more,’ Chaloner agreed. ‘My disguise is good, then?’

‘I did not recognise you. You have even changed the way you walk — you were limping. Did you hear about Smegergill the musician? He was killed in Smithfield last night, for his purse and a valuable ring. Some bystanders saw the culprit and gave chase, but the devil eluded them.’

‘One of the Hectors?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the ring and key in his pocket. He had considered leaving them at home, but there was nowhere good to hide them, and he had decided they would be safer on his person.

‘Apparently not, and they are said to be furious that someone dared to commit murder on their territory. I suspect they are telling the truth, because usually they brag about such crimes — it shows they do what they like and no one can stop them. The killer must be terrified, because Butcher Crisp has vowed to catch him and put him in a pie.’

‘Did these witnesses give a good description of the culprit?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘He kept his face concealed, but they say he was injured as Smegergill battled for his life, because he was unsteady on his feet. Personally, I hope Crisp roasts him alive. What kind of monster would harm a helpless old fellow like Smegergill?’

‘Is anything being done? Legally, I mean — not whatever the Hectors are about.’

‘Nothing can be done. It is their domain, and Crisp is the one who will be asking questions.’

Chaloner was aghast. ‘But what about the constables? Murder is a capital crime. Surely, they will want it investigated themselves, not leave a band of felons to do it?’

‘Not if they have any sense. And you had better not interfere, either. The Earl told me today that you must discover what happened to Newburne as a matter of urgency. The widow paid him another visit this morning, and he will not want you pursuing other enquiries as long as she is on the warpath.’

Trying not to limp, Chaloner walked to Westminster. Eventually, he reached the Rhenish Wine House, entering its smoky, humid interior with a sigh of relief — it had been a long walk for a man not in the best of health. His heart sank when he saw a porter at the foot of the stairs that led to the private rooms above. He had no money to bribe his way past, and doubted he would be allowed by wearing his current outfit, anyway. He needed a distraction.

It did not take him long to devise one. The dead mouse was still in his pocket, because he had forgotten to dispose of it. He waited until Landlord Genew placed a bowl of stew in front of a patron whose attention was fixed on one of the serving women, and dropped the small body into the food as he passed the man’s table. Then he perused the newsbooks while he waited for a reaction.

The Intelligencer was the only thing on offer, because Muddiman’s newsletters had already been claimed by other patrons. He read a frenzied editorial about the rebellion in York that made him wonder whether its writer was in his right mind, and learned that Mistress Atwood’s house at Havering had been broken open and the good lady relieved of two silver cups. Meanwhile, Mr Benjamin Farrow of Eltham, Kent had lost a ‘broad bay mare’ while he was out at his coffee house, and the Queen was suffering from a distemper, which Chaloner thought made her sound like a dog.

He glanced at the ogler, and wished the man would tear his longing gaze away from the maid and pay attention to his stew. He was beginning to think he might have to consider another way to distract the porter, when a spoon was finally dipped into the bowl. The results were well worth the wait. The ogler suddenly found himself with a mouthful of fur; he spat the offending object across the table, and began to gag. The porter and Genew rushed towards him, and Chaloner darted up the stairs unseen.

The attic, where Genew had said Maylord had lived, was five storeys up, and Chaloner was breathing hard by the time he reached the top. He found himself faced with three doors, any one of which might be Maylord’s room. He listened intently at the first, trying to ascertain whether it was occupied, then took a small metal probe from his pocket and inserted it into the lock when he thought it was not.

It did not take him many moments to pick his way inside. The room was tiny, sparsely furnished, and not very clean. The absence of any kind of musical instrument told him it was not Maylord’s, and he was about to close the door and try the next chamber when something caught his eye. There was a small table in the window, placed to catch the light, and on it was one of L’Estrange’s newsbooks. It had been smothered in red ink. Intrigued, he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.

The newsbook’s typeface was fuzzy, and whoever had been reading it had marked all the typographical errors that had been found. There were also notes in the margin, which Chaloner recognised as instructions to a printer. The date on the front page said Thursday 5 November, and he realised he was looking at a future issue of The Newes, not one already in circulation. Someone had obviously been given the task of checking the text, and was in the process of correcting it. Puzzled, Chaloner turned his attention to the pile of documents that sat next to it. The first sheet comprised a summary of the second item in the newsbook, which described a recent earthquake in Quebec. Other articles had been paraphrased, too, and hidden underneath them was a small book in which every précis had been carefully logged. A sum of money was entered in the margin against each, as if denoting its value. More lists appeared on previous pages, but these had initials next to them.

When Chaloner flicked through the book, he saw the accumulation of small amounts of cash amounted to a considerable whole — someone had made a lot of money by copying L’Estrange’s news. He studied the ledger more closely. There were several sets of initials, but the most common was HM. Chaloner could only assume it referred to Henry Muddiman. No wonder people claimed L’Estrange provided old news, and that Muddiman always told it first!

But who would betray the government’s official newsbooks, something that would almost certainly be deemed an act of treason? Hodgkinson the printer? Chaloner immediately discounted him on the grounds that he was unlikely to be entrusted with checking the text he himself had set. What about Brome or Joanna? Would they have the courage for such a dangerous activity? Somehow, Chaloner did not think so. He supposed he would have to find out who proof-read L’Estrange’s early drafts, and investigate them accordingly.

He began a systematic search of the room, looking for clues as to the traitor’s identity. Several law books lay on a shelf, along with a copy of a tome in Latin. When he picked it up, it fell open to a page that had a red cross at the top; the reader had wanted to highlight something. The title showed it to be a text by Galen, which Chaloner translated as On the Powers of Foods. The marked section contained the heading Cucumeris, and went on to say that eating these particular fruits caused cold, thick juice to accumulate in the veins, which could not be converted to good blood without problems.

Chaloner rubbed his head. Someone had been reading about the toxic effects of cucumbers — or the theory according to the ancients, at least. It was a person with a connection to L’Estrange’s newsbooks, who also had an interest in law. The obvious conclusion was that it was Newburne, because he was a solicitor associated with cucumbers, but he had lived in Old Jewry, and would not have needed a garret in the Rhenish Wine House. Then Chaloner recalled what Finch had said: that Newburne had rented a room in Ivy Lane, because it was near L’Estrange and the print-house. The solicitor had been rich, so perhaps he had leased other places across the city, too, to facilitate his various duties for L’Estrange, and perhaps Crisp, as well.

Aware that time was passing, Chaloner abandoned his musing, and returned to his search. There was a sheet of music on the windowsill, although there was no instrument to go with it. He transposed the written notes into a tune in his head. It was not an attractive jig, and he wondered why the composer had bothered. He put it back where he had found it, and dropped to his knees to look under the bed. In the deepest shadows, hidden among the balls of fluff and a greasy layer of dust, was a scrap of paper. He retrieved it with his dagger, but was disappointed to find it was just a receipt for the rent. Then he saw the payee’s name on the back: Nobert Wenum. So, the occupant was not Newburne after all, but someone Chaloner had never heard of.

There was no more to be learned from the dismal little chamber, so he headed for the door. He was about to open it when his eye fell on the small book that still lay on the table. At some point, he was going to have to tell L’Estrange that an employee called Wenum was betraying his trust, and the ledger offered solid proof of it. He slid it and the annotated Newes into his pocket, then left. There was still a commotion coming from downstairs, suggesting the ogler was making the kind of fuss that went before a claim for compensation.

He put his ear to the door of the second room, but someone was snoring inside, so he went to the third. The lock was more obstinate than Wenum’s, newer and stronger. Had Maylord installed it himself, and it was testament to the fact that he knew he was in mortal danger? Picking it took too long, and Chaloner was sweating by the time he had it open.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He knew he was in the right place when he saw two viols and a table that was covered in music. Some was in Maylord’s hand, and Chaloner hoped someone would play it one day. He picked up a page, and the haunting melody that sailed through his head made him want to grab one of the viols and bow it immediately. Reluctantly, he set it down.

It occurred to him that Maylord had died in that very room, and that his body had been found there with the cucumber nearby. There was no cucumber now, although a plate adorned with dried green smudges showed how the killer had almost succeeded in masking his crime. Warily, Chaloner inspected a cushion that lay on the bed, and dropped it in distaste when he saw a pinkish stain and a small tear: Maylord’s blood-tinged saliva and a rip caused by a broken tooth. He turned his attention to his search and the documents Smegergill thought were hidden there.

As an intelligencer, Chaloner knew most of the tricks people used when they wanted to conceal things. He tested the floor for loose boards, assessed walls and ceiling for hidden compartments, and ran his hands along the undersides of beds and chests. Finally, he inspected the chimney. It was brick, and he almost missed the fact that one stone stood very slightly proud of the others. He was impressed, and doubted it would have been noticeable to anyone but a professional spy. He jiggled it until he was able to draw it out. Behind it was a tiny recess containing a bundle of papers and a key. The key was identical to the one he had taken from Smegergill. However, there was nothing in Maylord’s room for either of them to open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Used to visit?’ queried Chaloner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did you ask him what was the matter?’

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

‘Did you ever see Wenum and Maylord together?’

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

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

‘Agreed,’ said the man with palpable relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Have you ever come across Wenum?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You just said it does not exist.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had a point. Chaloner did own a deep-rooted aversion to gaols, and was willing to go to considerable lengths to avoid them. He nodded his thanks, and went to sit next to the fire.

‘We will prevail against this vixen, Tom. However, I am more concerned about you than William this afternoon. You are clearly not thinking straight, because you have not once asked why the men who almost killed you last night should be searching Maylord’s room today. What did they want? The documents? The key? Money? Maylord was comparatively wealthy, unlike Smegergill, whose unpredictable temper meant he had no rich pupils — with the possible exception of that big-nosed lutanist whom no one liked.’

Chaloner had thought of little else all the way from the Rhenish Wine House, but had no idea why the three men should be in the same two places. ‘Perhaps they went to lay claim to Maylord’s key, because I took the identical one from Smegergill.’

‘That makes no sense. If they had wanted that, they would have removed it from Smegergill’s body when they had the chance. What is it for, do you think? It is too small for a door of any substance.’

‘A cupboard? A box?’

Thurloe examined them both. ‘They could be chain-lock keys — devices that secure things to walls. Musical instruments, perhaps. Now, tell me, in detail this time, what happened in Smithfield last night.’

Chaloner did not want to relive his failure yet again. ‘I cannot: it is still blurred. Why do you want to know anyway? I am painfully aware that it is my fault Smegergill died. I should not have let him walk around Smithfield at such a late hour, and I should not have let a gaggle of Hectors best me.’

‘Do not underestimate them, Tom. They are no mere louts like their rival gangs, the Muns or the Tityre Tus. Many were soldiers, and some are even professional men — such as Newburne and Wenum, it would seem. So, tell me what you recall. Leave nothing out.’

With a sigh, Chaloner obliged, although it was an uncomfortable process. Thurloe listened without interrupting, then sat back thoughtfully.

‘I disliked Smegergill. He was secretive about his origins when I tried to vet him for Cromwell’s court, and you never knew when he was going to turn on you with a caustic remark.’

‘He was not caustic last night. He barely remembered our conversation from one sentence to the next, and at points he thought I was my father.’

Thurloe steepled his fingers. ‘It seems to me that his role in the attack was ambiguous. No, do not argue, Tom. Hear me out. He could not have organised the ambush, because you went to see him out of the blue, and he had no time to make such arrangements. Yet he was not surprised by it, either.’

Chaloner was astonished by the line the ex-Spymaster’s thinking had taken, and disagreed strongly with his interpretation. ‘How do you know he was not surprised?’ he demanded bitterly. ‘He never had the chance to discuss it with me, because he was dead before it was over.’

‘Think, Thomas, and analyse the evidence objectively, as I have taught you to do. You heard Smegergill talking to the attackers before you were dragged into the churchyard — talking, not yelling for help, as most men would have been doing.’

‘He was probably frightened. He was old, frail and not in his right wits. And if he believed the attackers were Bedlam men coming for him, then it is not surprising that he failed to raise the alarm.’

‘We are not talking about his failure to raise the alarm — although I find it odd that he did not at least cry out when armed rogues appeared — we are discussing the fact that he spoke to them. And he cannot have been overly witless, or Greeting would not have hired him to play in his consort. Greeting is fiercely ambitious, and is highly selective about the musicians he allows to join him.’

Greeting was ambitious, Chaloner knew, and certainly would not tolerate a consort member who might do something to damage his reputation. ‘But this does not mean Smegergill-’

‘Then what about the fact that Smegergill suggested a specific location from which to take a carriage, but had no money with which to pay? Perhaps he had no intention of riding with you to Maylord’s room, and his real purpose was to keep you away from it at all costs. Everyone knows Smithfield is dangerous at night. Have you considered the possibility that he led you there deliberately, knowing what would happen?’

‘What happened was that he was killed and I escaped.’

‘And I am sure that was not the outcome he was anticipating. Besides, you would have died had you not been wearing your metal hat. They came closer than I like to think.’

Chaloner still did not believe he was right. ‘There are all manner of explanations for his lack of money, including the fact that he was forgetful and may have overlooked filling his purse-’

‘Then why were you searched and he was not? He kept his ring and his key, despite the fact that the men who attacked you sound like professional thieves who would be unlikely to pass over such items. And you say his only injury was a small cut to his mouth?’

‘I heard a blow falling when I was lying on the ground. They did hit him.’

Thurloe raised his hands defensively. ‘Then perhaps he is a victim after all. I am not saying there is anything odd about Smegergill, Tom, just that you should bear the possibility in mind. And you should not wallow too deeply in remorse until you are absolutely sure it is justified.’

Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘What do you know about Crisp?’ he asked, to change the subject.

‘He is associated with everything illegal in the Smithfield area, but only for the last two years or so. I would not have tolerated him when I was in government — as I said, a military dictatorship confers all manner of advantages, and an absence of underworld kings is one of them.’

‘Have you heard his name associated with Newburne’s?’

‘No, but it does not surprise me that they knew each other: a felon and a corrupt lawyer make for comfortable bedfellows.’

‘Where does Crisp live? Who are his associates?’

Thurloe scratched his head. ‘He must live in Smithfield, because that is his realm of influence. He is often seen there, surrounded by Hectors, but tends to shy away from appointments outside the area. Because he is rich, powerful and influential, some of the Guilds have tried to establish a connection with him — for business purposes — but he declines to make major public appearances.’

‘Maylord was smothered and Newburne was poisoned. Crisp knew them both.’

‘Crisp knew Newburne,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘We cannot be sure that he knew Maylord.’

‘He must have done — it was probably his men who visited Maylord’s room. Why would they have been there, if there was no connection? And do not say because of Smegergill — I do not believe he deliberately tried to have me killed by Hectors. Perhaps they met through Wenum. He was a Hector and he was Maylord’s neighbour at the Rhenish Wine House.’

‘But that neighbour said Maylord would have had nothing to do with Wenum, other than exchanging pleasantries in the hallway,’ pounced Thurloe. He hesitated. ‘I do not mean to tell you your business, Tom, but I have been wondering whether you ever intend to examine the documents you retrieved from Maylord. They might provide you with answers, and render some of our discussion obsolete.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, removing them from his pocket. ‘I had forgotten all about them.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Thurloe. ‘You are not yourself today, or you would have had them open the moment you arrived.’

Chaloner untied the dirty ribbon that bound them together and unfolded the first sheet. Then he examined the second and the third. ‘Music,’ he said in astonishment. ‘It is just music.’

Thurloe sat back, disappointed. ‘Well, I suppose Maylord was a composer.’

‘He did not compose these, though,’ said Chaloner. ‘This is not his writing.’