The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 6

Thurloe wanted Chaloner to stay in his chambers while he went to speak to his informants about Mary Cade, and Chaloner did not object, because they were warm, comfortable and the pantry was well-stocked with food. He sat by the fire intending to study the music from Maylord’s chimney, write another article about Portugal as an excuse to re-visit L’Estrange, and think about his investigation. He dashed off the article quickly enough, but the music was difficult to understand and his investigation had him confounded, so he spent most of the time asleep. Hours later, Thurloe returned to say he had met with no success. Worse, he had failed to gain access to Newgate, because he had arrived too late, which meant Chaloner would have to go after all. The prospect did not fill the spy with enthusiasm.

‘No one knows Mary, except as a lady newly arrived in Cripplegate,’ Thurloe said, as he returned the drawing. He was tired and dispirited. ‘It is almost as if she never existed before she bewitched William.’

‘She existed,’ said Chaloner grimly. ‘The way she threatened me suggested I am not the first man she has tried to intimidate, and all we have to do is encourage her other victims to talk to us.’

‘We shall have to find them first. Perhaps they are all in the provinces. Will you travel the length and breadth of the country in an attempt to unveil her?’

‘If that is what it takes to save Will, then yes.’

Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn at ten o’clock, when the streets were quiet, and most fires were doused. He walked to his lodgings, and slept until the bellman announced that it was five o’clock on a cold, rainy morning. He washed in the bucket of water his landlord had left for him, shaved, and rummaged in his clothes chest for something respectable to wear.

His choices were even more limited than they had been the previous day, and he was obliged to settle for a shirt that was too small for him, and a purple coat he had been lent three months ago, but that he had forgotten to return. He bundled up the insect-ravaged remainder of his clothes and tossed them over his shoulder, intending to spend his last two pennies on matching thread as soon as the markets opened. He was perfectly capable of making basic repairs, and a lack of suitable attire would start to impede his work soon, by barring him from the places he needed to visit. Dick Whittington style, with the cat at his heels, he crept down the stairs and let himself out through the front door. When it saw drizzle falling steadily, the cat promptly turned around and stalked back inside again.

It was still pitch black, although London was beginning to stir. Lamps and fires were lit in Fetter Lane, and the smell of burning wood mingled with the scent of bread from a nearby cook-shop. The aroma reminded Chaloner that he needed to acquire some money before he starved. He cursed under his breath when his first step ended in a splash, and freezing water seeped into his boots. He recalled Thurloe mentioning the previous day that the Houses of Parliament were flooded, and that prayers were being said all over the city for a break in the weather.

He crossed Fleet Street, and aimed for Hercules’ Pillars Alley, a narrow lane named for the famous tavern that stood on its corner. Lights gleamed inside the inn, and muted cheers suggested a gambling session was in play. Since the Restoration, taverns had reverted to the age-old tradition of staying open for as long as their patrons demanded, and Londoners were proud of the fact that ale and wine were available in their city twenty-four hours a day.

About halfway down the road was a tall, three-storey building separated from the traffic by a line of metal railings and an attractive courtyard. Its window shutters, firmly closed against the foul weather, were newly painted, and everything about the place bespoke quality and affluence. It belonged to Temperance North, who had once been Chaloner’s neighbour. She had invested her entire inheritance in the house, then stunned her friends by opening an elegant bordello that was very popular among wealthy courtiers. Chaloner loved Temperance like a sister, but had not yet been to tell her he was back from his latest travels. She would be hurt if he left it too long, so a visit was already overdue.

He tapped on the door and waited, shivering as the wind blew rain into his face. Eventually, he heard a bar being removed, and the door was opened warily by a man called Preacher Hill. Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, who worked as a night-porter for Temperance, so his days could be free to stand in public places and spout inflammatory sermons. It was men like Hill who fanned the flames of religious dissent, and he and Chaloner had never seen eye to eye.

‘What do you want at this hour of the morning?’ demanded Hill. He glanced up at the sky. ‘It is still dark.’

‘Is Temperance ill?’ asked Chaloner, suddenly aware that had the ‘gentleman’s club’ been operating as normal, Hill would have been outside, helping patrons into carriages or on to horses. Lights would have been blazing from windows, and there would have been some sort of sound — soft music or the murmur of voices. He wondered if she had been attacked during the time he had been away, and forced to close.

‘She is well,’ replied Hill. He sighed, knowing better than to annoy his employer by dismissing her friends. ‘Come in and I will fetch her, although I cannot imagine she will be pleased to see you.’

He stamped off down the hallway, and Chaloner waited uncertainly, noting that the chamber where the revelries usually took place was empty. It was also clean and tidy, and had clearly not been used for any sort of entertainment the night before.

‘Thomas!’ came Temperance’s voice from the stairs. She was wearing an elegant velvet mantua, a robe-like garment usually worn over night-clothes. ‘Where have you been these last four months? Mr Thurloe said you had gone abroad, but you could have left me a note, too, so I would not worry.’

‘There was no time.’ Chaloner was sorry to hear the reproach in her voice. He had very few friends in London — he would have fewer still if Mary Cade had her way over Leybourn — and he did not want to alienate any of them.

She inspected his face, raising her hand to touch the bruise on his jaw. ‘You have been fighting, I see. You have not changed!’

‘You have,’ said Chaloner. She had grown plumper, and her glossy chestnut hair was set in the style favoured by Lady Castlemaine. There were expensive rings on her fingers, and she had somehow acquired the casual, mocking smile that was currently the vogue at White Hall. In all, they were not pleasant developments, and he wondered what was happening to her.

‘It has rained almost constantly since you left,’ she said, when he did not elaborate. ‘The old folk say it was the worst summer ever. Special prayers were said for the harvest, but they did scant good.’

‘It is the wrath of God,’ said Preacher Hill in a voice that was far too loud for the early hour. ‘He disapproves of debauchery, and sends a scourge of rain to lead us back to the path of righteousness.’

Chaloner wanted to point out that this was rank hypocrisy from a man who earned his daily bread in a brothel, but he did not want to offend Temperance, so he held his tongue. He followed her along the hallway to the large, warm kitchen, while Hill disappeared on business of his own. Normally, the room was busy, as scullions prepared for the new day by scouring pans and fetching water. That morning, however, the hearth was a mass of dead, white ashes, and the room was still and silent. Temperance began to lay the fire, while Chaloner looked around him.

‘Where are your people? The cooks and the maids.’ And the prostitutes, he was tempted to add, but was still not quite sure how to refer to them without causing offence.

‘In bed,’ she replied. She glanced up at him. ‘Yesterday was All Saints and today is All Souls.’

He regarded her blankly. ‘I do not understand.’

She raised her eyebrows indignantly. ‘The club does not operate on religious high days, Thomas. That would be immoral.’

Temperance was eager to tell Chaloner all that had happened in London during his absence. He did not ask whether she had heard about the deaths of Newburne and Maylord, but they were included in her summary anyway. It was not long before she was joined by her matronly assistant Maude, and the discussion became even more detailed. Although listening to gossip was not something he particularly enjoyed, it was a necessary part of being a spy, and he was good at asking questions that prompted a decent flow of information.

He discovered that the bishops had successfully vetoed a Bill that granted indulgences to Catholics, and the King — unfashionably tolerant of ‘popery’ — was furious about it. The old Archbishop of Canterbury had died, and was succeeded by a man who was unlikely to soothe troubled waters. The Devil was making regular appearances in a house in Wiltshire, obliging the Queen to send agents to investigate — Chaloner was grateful he had not been given that commission — and the King had hesitated to acknowledge Lady Castlemaine’s latest baby as his own; she was said to be livid at what amounted to a slur on her fidelity.

‘How do you know all this?’ he asked when they had finished. Their chatter had saved him the bother of reading back-issues of the newsbooks, and knowing Court gossip and a smattering of current affairs made him feel less of an alien in his own country.

‘Our customers often bring newsletters for us to read,’ explained Temperance. ‘After all, everyone is interested in intelligence these days. It is the latest fashion.’

‘We buy the newsbooks,’ elaborated Maude, ‘but they are a waste of money. The newsletters are better, especially Muddiman’s. L’Estrange’s rags contain a lot of rubbish that the government wants us to believe, but that must be taken with a fistful of salt. Take Monday’s Intelligencer, for example. Were phanatiques really intent on seizing York? Or does L’Estrange exaggerate?’

‘Muddiman says the rebellion was confined to a few misguided lunatics,’ said Temperance. ‘So, I think we can ignore L’Estrange’s attempts to make us think we are on the brink of another civil war.’

Chaloner was sure their opinion of the newsbooks echoed that of most Londoners, and thought Williamson had better do something to improve them before they slipped so far into disrepute that they would never recover.

‘Have you met L’Estrange’s assistant, Tom?’ asked Maude. Her expression could best be described as lecherous. ‘Henry Brome is a lovely man, and it is a pity he is married.’

‘I do not think much of Joanna,’ said Temperance immediately. ‘Far too thin. And she reminds me of a rabbit — all teeth, ears and eyes. I cannot abide skinny women.’

Chaloner regarded her in surprise. Temperance was not usually catty, and he supposed her own expanding waistline made her jealous of those who had theirs under control. ‘I rather like her.’

‘Everyone likes her,’ drawled Temperance acidly. ‘She is so sweet. Personally, I usually feel like grabbing her by the throat and shaking some backbone into her. Timid little mouse!’

Chaloner laughed at her vehemence. ‘I prefer her to some of the people I have met since arriving back in London. And speaking of unpleasant men, you mentioned the death of a solicitor called Newburne earlier. Did you ever meet him?’

‘He came here once,’ said Temperance, not seeming to think there was anything odd in the question. ‘He was a small, bald fellow with the kind of moustache that made him look debauched — like the King’s. I did not like him. He pawed the girls, then left without paying.’

‘Actually,’ countered Maude, ‘he told Preacher Hill that he would send payment with Ellis Crisp. Of course, it amounts to the same thing. Who would dare ask Crisp for money?’

‘It is curious that Newburne died of cucumbers,’ mused Temperance. ‘There has been a lot of it about of late. First, there was that charming Colonel Beauclair, equerry to the Master of Horse. Then there was Valentine Pettis, the pony-dealer-’

‘Two men associated with nags,’ said Chaloner, wondering if it was significant.

‘And finally two sedan-chairmen,’ finished Temperance, ‘who had nothing to do with nags, because they are effectively mules themselves. I expect it is just a bad year for cucumbers, probably because of the rain. Perhaps the dismal weather produced a crop with unusually evil vapours.’

‘Do not forget Maylord,’ added Maude. ‘He died of cucumbers, too, although he once told me he never ate anything green. He said it made him break out in boils.’

‘I miss Maylord,’ said Temperance sadly. ‘He came here to play for us sometimes. He told me he taught your father the viol, Tom. Is it true?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Did he perform for you during the last two weeks or so? Someone told me he was upset about something, and I would like to know what.’

‘Money,’ supplied Maude helpfully. ‘He thought someone had cheated him of some, and was very angry about it — not like him at all. He did not say how much he was owed or the name of the debtor, but it was obviously a substantial sum or he would not have been so agitated. Did you hear his close friend Smegergill was murdered on Sunday? At Smithfield.’

‘Was he?’ asked Temperance, startled. ‘That is a pity. I cannot say I took to Smegergill, because he was odd, but I am sorry to hear he met a violent end.’

‘How was he odd?’ asked Chaloner.

‘He was losing his memory, and was convinced he was about to be committed to Bedlam,’ replied Temperance. ‘He often made peculiar remarks about it — the kind that make a person uncomfortable.’

‘That was his idea of a joke,’ argued Maude. ‘He did not really believe there was anything wrong with him. It was just something he liked to claim, perhaps so people would contradict him and say he was as sane as the rest of us. Which he was.’

Temperance was thoughtful. ‘Do you really think so? I was under the impression that it was a genuine fear, and he was becoming more forgetful.’

Maude remained firm. ‘It was clear he was just amusing himself by pretending to be addled. I saw him laughing fit to burst once when he told the Duke of Buckingham he was turning into an elephant, and the Duke responded by providing him with a large handkerchief for blowing his trunk.’

‘Well, he once told me that his name was Caesar, and so he should be allowed to rule White Hall,’ said Temperance, unconvinced. ‘That is not normal behaviour by anyone’s standards. But we should discuss something else before we quarrel. Have you seen William since you returned, Tom? He has fallen in with a very devious person.’

‘He brought her to meet us,’ said Maude. ‘She was more interested in our silverware than our company, and then she said she knew plenty of ladies who would like to work for us.’

‘They will not be ladies,’ said Temperance disapprovingly. ‘And we are very selective about who we hire. We have our reputation to consider, and I doubt she knows any respectable girls.’

Chaloner doubted the whores who worked for Temperance would be deemed ‘respectable girls’ by most Londoners, either. He showed them his drawing. ‘I am going to take this to Newgate today, to see if anyone recognises her.’

Maude regarded the picture critically. ‘You need to make her eyes colder and harder, and add more weight to her jowls. I am glad you intend to separate her from Mr Leybourn. If you do not, she will have every penny from him, and crush his heart, too. We will help you.’

‘How?’

‘My sister lives in Smithfield, and her cakes are just as popular with villains as with law-abiding men. Leave your picture with me, and I will ask her about Mary Cade.’

‘She told me she was a friend of Ellis Crisp,’ said Chaloner.

Maude immediately shoved the drawing back across the table. ‘Well, in that case, I shall mind my own business. And so should you. No one should put himself on the wrong side of Butcher Crisp.’

Temperance was appalled. ‘Are you saying William is in the clutches of the Hectors? But that is terrible! We must do something to save him, even if it does mean coming to blows with Crisp.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘It is too dangerous. Leave it to me.’

‘For once, I agree,’ said Maude fervently. ‘I shall do as you say, and so will Temperance. I am no coward, but there is no point in asking for trouble, and I would hate to see the club in flames.’

Chaloner gazed at her. ‘It is that bad?’

‘Worse,’ declared Maude. ‘Mr Leybourn will just have to take his chances — and hope he lives to learn his lesson about women like Mary Cade.’

‘There is one thing we can do, though,’ said Temperance. ‘William once told me he keeps all his money in a sack under a floorboard, because he does not trust bankers. You must persuade him to take it elsewhere, Tom. Mary and her cronies might lose interest in him once it is no longer available.’

Chaloner had known about Leybourn’s careless attitude towards his life-savings, but it had slipped his mind. He supposed he should steal it, to keep it safe until his friend had come to his senses. ‘I will devise a way to stop them getting it,’ he said, deliberately vague. He did not want to involve Temperance and Maude in a plan that would almost certainly involve burglary.

‘Good,’ said Temperance, ‘but do it discreetly. Do not give the Hectors reason to suspect you are responsible, or you may end up in one of the Butcher’s pies.’

‘Where are you taking that bundle of clothes?’ asked Maude in the silence that followed Temperance’s unsettling remark. ‘To the rag-pickers? They are in a sorry state, so I doubt you will get much for them.’

‘They only need to be mended,’ objected Chaloner, rather offended. ‘I was going to buy thread-’

Maude inspected them critically. ‘Only a seamstress of the highest calibre will be able to salvage these! You had better leave them with me.’

‘They are all I have,’ said Chaloner, hoping she would not decide they were beyond repair and throw them away. He could not afford to replace them.

‘Do not worry. You can trust me — with a needle at least.’ Maude winked disconcertingly at him.

‘Meanwhile, we shall lend you something that does not make you look like a Parliamentarian fallen on hard times,’ said Temperance, businesslike and practical. ‘Our customers often leave garments behind, so we actually possess an impressive wardrobe.’

‘I cannot visit White Hall wearing clothes abandoned in a brothel,’ objected Chaloner, thinking about what might happen if an owner recognised them.

‘We will pick you something bland,’ replied Maude, rather coolly.

She heaved her ample rump out of her chair and returned a few moments later with a green long-coat and breeches. The coat had buttons up the front, on the pockets, and along the sleeves. She insisted that he also wear boot hose — leggings with lace around the knees that hid the top of his boots — on the grounds that not to do so would look peculiar. The ensemble was finished with a clean white ‘falling band’, a bib-like accessory that went around the neck and lay flat on the chest.

Maude regarded him appreciatively. ‘What a difference a few decent clothes can make to a fellow! You have gone from impecunious servant to a man of some standing.’

‘You look nice,’ agreed Temperance, smiling. ‘I might even make a play for you myself.’

Chaloner glanced sharply at her, but saw she was teasing him. She had been enamoured of him once, but had since learned that she did not want a husband or a protector telling her what to do. And he certainly had no intention of dallying with a brothel-mistress.

When Chaloner left the bordello, the rain had stopped, although dark clouds suggested there was more to come. Everything dripped — houses, churches, trees, the scruffy food stalls in Fleet Street, carts and even horses. The usual clatter of hoofs on cobbles was replaced by splattering water and sloshing sounds as people made their way through lakes of mud. Even the pigeons roosting in the eaves looked bedraggled, and the black rats in the shadows had coats that were a mess of spiky wet fur.

When he passed a cook-shop, delicious smells reminded him that he was hungry, so he decided to visit White Hall to claim his back-pay first. He was horrified to learn from the clerks in the Accompting House that he had not been on their records since June. Sure there had been a mistake, he went to the Stone Gallery, and found the Lord Chancellor in earnest conversation with a dark, brooding man who wore the robes of a high-ranking churchman. Chaloner waited until the cleric had gone before approaching the Earl.

‘Sheldon agrees with me,’ confided the Earl gleefully, rubbing his hands together. ‘That will show Parliament who is right!’

Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about, and supposed he would have to read the old newsbooks after all. ‘I am pleased to hear it, sir,’ he replied.

Unfortunately, the Earl knew a noncommittal answer when he heard one. ‘You do not know him, do you! You must settle down and learn something about your own country, not race off to foreign parts at the drop of a hat. Sheldon is the new Archbishop of Canterbury. He has just promised to make a stand against religious dissenters with me. It is good news.’

‘Is it?’ Chaloner did not think so. There were a lot of people who did not want to conform to the Anglican Church’s narrow protocols, and he felt it was unwise to alienate such a large segment of the population. He was sure such a rigid stance would come back to haunt the Earl in the future.

Clarendon’s expression hardened. ‘Yes, it is. There are far too many radical sects, and their false religion is an excuse for sedition and treason. The fires of fanaticism burn hot and wild if left unchecked, and we must douse them while we can. And if you disagree with me, you are a fool.’

‘Yes, sir.’ It was always safer not to argue with anyone where religion was concerned.

Clarendon eyed him coldly. ‘Well? What do you want? Have you come to tell me the name of Newburne’s killer?’

‘I think it may be more complex-’

The Earl held up a plump hand. ‘Do not make excuses. I am tired of being treated with disrespect by all and sundry. Buckingham and his young blades mock me; the King’s mistress flaunts her latest bastard in my face; and you insult me whenever we meet. I have had enough of it.’

‘Perhaps I should stay in White Hall, then, to learn about your enemies’ plans to-’

‘No!’ snapped the Earl. ‘You will assist L’Estrange, as I ordered. I need his goodwill, because he controls the newsbooks, which means he also controls the hearts and minds of London. Ergo, discovering Newburne’s killer is important.’

Chaloner suspected Muddiman controlled a lot more hearts and minds than L’Estrange. ‘He does not want my help, sir. He said to thank you for your kind offer, but to decline it politely.’

The Earl’s eyes narrowed. ‘That means he has something to hide. You will look into this.’

‘I will try my-’

‘No!’ shouted Clarendon, loudly enough to startle several passing nobles. ‘You will not try, you will succeed. And to add an incentive, I shall not put you back on my payroll until you do. I deleted you when you abandoned me for the Queen — why should I pay a man working for another master? — and you will only be reinstated when you have proved your loyalty by exposing Newburne’s killer.’

‘You doubt me, sir?’ Chaloner asked, stunned that the Earl should be suspicious of him after he had risked his life on several occasions to further the man’s cause.

‘I doubt everyone these days. I know you have helped me in the past, but that was then and this is now. If you want to work for me again, you must prove yourself in the matter of Newburne.’

Chaloner was tempted to tell him to go to Hell, but then what would he do? The Earl offered the only opportunity for intelligence work — at least, until the Queen recovered from her illness. And even then it was possible that Chaloner’s foray to the Iberian Peninsula had been a single commission, and she would have her own people for more routine business. Besides, he suspected Her Majesty’s main concern would be the King’s mistresses, and he had no wish to spy on them. Some were infinitely more deadly than the Butcher of Smithfield.

The Earl saw he was cornered, and began to gloat. ‘It was your own decision to dash off to Portugal. I asked you not to accept the Queen’s commission.’

‘Only after you had ordered me to go, when it was too late to change my mind,’ objected Chaloner. ‘If you had made your position clear sooner, I might have been able to think of an excuse.’

‘So, it was my fault, was it?’ demanded the Earl. ‘How dare you! I am the only man in London willing to hire you — and that means you are not in a position to be insolent. I am sick of impudence and I am putting my foot down. I mean to show everyone what I am made of.’

And what he was made of was a lot of petty spite, thought Chaloner. He could not best his peers, so he was venting his spleen on someone who could not fight back. His instinct was to tell the man he was a mean-spirited bigot, but while that would be satisfying, it would do him no good. He swallowed his pride and nodded acceptance of the Earl’s terms.

Clarendon smirked, savouring the victory, then reached out to pull him into the light of one of the windows, peering into his face. ‘Have you been fighting?’

‘Working for you is dangerous,’ retorted Chaloner, ignoring the fact that he did not know for certain whether the ambush was related to his investigation into Newburne. ‘I was attacked trying to question suspects for you.’

‘Well, you seem to have survived,’ said the Earl unfeelingly. ‘What did you learn?’

‘That someone called Wenum has been selling L’Estrange’s news to Muddiman. It is possible that Newburne discovered this, and was killed to ensure his silence. However, it is also possible that he was murdered because of his association with Ellis Crisp-’

‘Spymaster Williamson is investigating Crisp, so he and his nasty Hectors will soon be a thing of the past. He has his best man — a fellow called Hickes — on the case.’

‘Do I know Hickes?’ asked Chaloner. It could not be the apple-seller for two reasons. First, because the man had been ordered to watch Muddiman, not Crisp. And secondly, because the country was in deep trouble if that slow-witted specimen represented the secret service’s ‘best man’.

‘I have no idea who you might have encountered in the sordid world of espionage,’ replied Clarendon haughtily. ‘So, you think Newburne’s death might be related to the newsbooks, do you? That is unfortunate, because it means I shall be obliged to pay the widow’s pension after all.’

‘All I can do is hunt out the facts, sir. What you do with them is your business.’

The Earl regarded him thoughtfully, and Chaloner braced himself for another dressing down. Instead, Clarendon turned to gaze out of the window. ‘Your discovery about Wenum is interesting. Do you think L’Estrange knows he is being betrayed, and is trying to keep it from the government? Williamson will be furious when he finds out. No wonder the newsletters are always so much better to read than the government-run newsbooks.’

‘L’Estrange is aware that someone is selling his news to a third party, but he does not know the identity of the culprit.’

‘Then tell him,’ ordered the Earl. ‘And make sure he knows the information comes courtesy of me. I warrant Williamson’s agent has not been so assiduous.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner with a sinking heart. The last thing he needed was to be used as a pawn in a battle between the Earl and Williamson. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Yes. You have five days to unmask Newburne’s killer. It is Wednesday today, so you have until Monday. If you have not solved the matter by then, you can find yourself another master.’

Chaloner left the Stone Gallery feeling his life had just taken a dramatic and unnerving plunge towards disaster — and that the Earl’s own situation was probably not much better. The man was wise to distrust his peers, but there was no need to alienate his staff, too, not unless he wanted to find himself with no allies — and in a place like White Hall, to be friendless was dangerous. He was assailed with a sense of misgiving, not sure he could trust the Earl to reinstate him even if he did provide answers — assuming Crisp or some henchman did not kill him first, of course. And how was he supposed to manage for five days with no money? He was so engrossed in his concerns that he did not hear Bulteel calling him, and the secretary was obliged to tug his sleeve to claim his attention.

‘He is in a foul mood today,’ Bulteel said, jumping back when he saw a dagger appear in the spy’s hand, as if by magic. ‘If I had seen you first, I would have recommended that you communicate in writing. Did he dismiss you? If so, you will be the third today.’

‘What is the matter with him?’

Bulteel gestured with his hand, encompassing everything. ‘He hates politics and intrigue, and would far sooner be at home with his family. Yet when he is home he worries about what might be happening behind his back. That spat with the Earl of Bristol last spring hurt him deeply, and although he emerged victorious, he knows it is only a matter of time before another enemy rises against him.’

‘They will rise a lot sooner if he drives away the people who are willing to help him.’

Bulteel gave one of his shy smiles. ‘He will be sorry tomorrow for what he said to you. Are you still helping him with this Newburne business? He badly needs loyal men, and this is important.’

‘Why is it important? I am still not sure he is telling the truth about why he wants the matter investigated. Is it really because he does not want to pay the widow’s pension?’

Bulteel looked furtive. ‘If I tell you, will you promise never to reveal where you heard it?’ Chaloner nodded cautiously. ‘It is because Newburne was his spy.’

Chaloner was not surprised, because it had already occurred to him. ‘He said Newburne was hired for legal work, but of course I drew my own conclusions — the Lord Chancellor of England will have access to far better solicitors than poor Newburne. And then he was dismissed for stealing.’

‘That was a ruse. Newburne was never dismissed — he was the Earl’s man for more than a decade.’

Now Chaloner was surprised. From what he had learned of Newburne, the solicitor was not the kind of man with whom any upright noble would want to associate long term. And the Earl was upright, despite his faults. ‘Are you sure?’

‘He sent us information about Cromwell during the Commonwealth. It was more gossip than genuine intelligence, if the truth be told, but the Earl was grateful anyway. Then he kept us appraised of what was happening in Smithfield as Crisp began to rise in power. And latterly, he reported to us about L’Estrange’s running of the newsbooks.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Then perhaps L’Estrange killed Newburne because he objected to being watched. It would explain why he ordered me not to look into the matter.’

‘Assuming he knew what Newburne was up to. Our sly solicitor was very careful.’

‘Could Newburne have sold L’Estrange’s stories to the newsletters, then?’ Chaloner was asking himself more than Bulteel. ‘With Wenum’s help? If the Earl was his real master, why not betray L’Estrange?’

Bulteel shrugged. ‘All I can tell you is that he was loyal to us, and the Earl appreciates trustworthiness. He knew Newburne was no angel, and that he dabbled in devious business, but he will miss his reports. I hope you uncover his killer, although you must take care.’

‘I always take care.’

‘I am sure you do. However, remember that Williamson may have guessed what Newburne was doing, and he has a way of ridding himself of people who cross him. He will not want you exposing him as a killer. Meanwhile, L’Estrange is a hothead, who would think nothing of running you through for an imprudent remark, and you do have an insolent tongue. Also, the booksellers would prefer Newburne to be quietly buried and forgotten. Meanwhile, Crisp’s power is on the increase, and he might well have dispensed with a man who knew too many sensitive details about his business-’

‘Is there anyone in London not on your list of suspects?’

Bulteel thought carefully. ‘The Queen. She had a distemper at the time of Newburne’s death, and was in bed, surrounded by physicians. But I had better deliver these letters, or you will not be the only one to suffer the Earl’s sour temper.’

Chaloner watched him scurry away, all frayed gown and flapping sleeves. Was he telling the truth? Was the Earl’s determination to catch Newburne’s killer explained at last? And did it really matter, given that Chaloner was obliged to solve the case anyway, if he wanted a job at the end of the week? He was about to leave White Hall when he saw Greeting hurrying towards the Privy Gardens with a violin under his arm. He knew he should go to Ivy Lane and tell L’Estrange about Wenum, but Smegergill’s death was preying on his mind, and he wanted answers.

‘The Queen is still ill, and her surgeon says music might help,’ said Greeting rather breathlessly when Chaloner waylaid him. ‘He has chosen me to play, so I cannot talk to you for long.’

‘I thought she was getting better.’

‘She is, which some courtiers attribute to a rather lovely air I composed and played to her myself. She actually smiled when I finished it, and told me I was an angel.’

‘Was she delirious?’

Greeting winced. ‘I suppose that remark pertains to my shabby clothes. Where did you buy that coat? I wish my Court appointment provided me with a decent income. I can never make ends meet, no matter how hard I try. Will you put in a word for me with the Lord Chancellor? I understand you clerk for him, when your duties at the Victualling Office allow. I could clerk, too, in my spare time.’

‘I was sorry to hear about Smegergill. I understand he was a member of your consort.’

‘I could hardly believe it, especially so soon after Maylord. I live in Smithfield, and Hingston — the organist — is staying with me, because his house is flooded. It might have been we who were attacked.’

Chaloner was surprised he should think so. ‘I thought a coach was provided, to deliver you all safely home. You were never in any danger.’

Greeting pulled a disagreeable face. ‘You obviously do not hire many hackneys. When only Hingston and I were left, the driver demanded a higher fare than we had agreed, and when we refused, he ordered us out. We walked past the very place where Smegergill was murdered. Indeed, we saw Crisp arrive to inspect the scene of the crime, but we never dreamed Smegergill was the victim. We should not have let him go with that stranger; I blame myself for not demanding the villain’s identity.’

‘Would Smegergill not have resented the interference? I was told he could be difficult.’

Greeting gave a wan smile. ‘That is putting it mildly — he was downright contumacious at times.’

‘He told me he was afraid he might be taken to Bedlam.’

‘He often talked about that, but I am not sure if it was a genuine concern or a bizarre way of fishing for compliments — his mind could be very sharp at times. Two of our colleagues were taken to Bedlam recently, although not for insanity. There is a rumour that they were spies, and that Williamson caught them red-handed. It sent a clear message to all would-be informers: dabble in espionage at your peril.’

‘You are wet,’ said Chaloner, indicating Greeting’s sodden clothes. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘I have just come from the Rhenish Wine House, where Maylord’s will was read. He left everything to Smegergill, and it is a pity the old man did not survive to enjoy any of it.’

‘Did Maylord own a lot of property, then?’

‘A fair amount — two houses, a large collection of books and musical instruments, a shop of some kind, money invested with bankers. Oh, and there was a fine nag, too.’

‘Nag?’ Chaloner was thinking about the other cucumber victims — the equerry and the horse-trader.

‘A racing beast. He kept it at Newmarket, although I do not think he was very interested in the sport. It was an investment, for when he could no longer earn a living by music. There is a lesson for us, Heyden. There is no point in worrying about the future, because there may not be one.’

‘I have been told that someone owed him money, or that he was being cheated.’

‘Very possibly. It would explain why he was angry and nervous in the two weeks before he died. The Court is infested with vultures, and his good nature would have made him easy prey.’

‘Poor Smegergill,’ said Chaloner sadly. ‘Maylord’s money would have kept him from Bedlam.’

‘He knew he was Maylord’s beneficiary — we all did. There are those who say he gave Maylord the cucumber, because he wanted his inheritance.’

Chaloner did not believe for an instant that Smegergill had hastened Maylord’s end. The old man’s distress when told his friend had been murdered was genuine. ‘What do you think?’

Greeting raised his eyebrows. ‘That this is White Hall, and people would gossip about the saints themselves, should they be unfortunate enough to find themselves here.’

Chaloner walked to Ivy Lane, thinking about the best way to tell L’Estrange about Wenum. He did not want to accuse someone who might have been a much-loved friend, and risk L’Estrange brandishing a sword at him. Chaloner would probably win the encounter, but he did not want to be arrested for wounding a government official — or worse.

When he arrived, Brome’s shop was full. The bookseller and Joanna were dealing with a healthy queue of customers, while L’Estrange was grumbling about the length of time it took for his papers to be printed. Hodgkinson was explaining that ink took a while to dry, and that rushing the process resulted in smudged and unreadable text.

‘Alcohol of sulphur,’ said Chaloner. L’Estrange and the printer stared at him. ‘In Holland, printers add alcohol of sulphur to ink, because they say it promotes faster drying. I have no idea if it works-’

‘Buy some,’ ordered L’Estrange, turning back to Hodgkinson. ‘We must do something to give us an edge over Muddiman. But why are you here, Heyden? I told you I do not want you investigating Newburne’s demise. He died of cucumbers, so let that mark the end of the matter.’

‘I came to give you more intelligence about Portugal,’ replied Chaloner. He handed over the notice he had written in Thurloe’s room the previous evening.

L’Estrange read aloud. ‘“About the beginning of October, the Earl of San Juao, with 5500 foot, 1300 horse and 8 field pieces entered into old Castile, out of the province Tras os Montes, and passed far into the country without opposition, where he sacked a matter of 60 towns and places, but burnt none, for His Majesty had forbidden it”. Is this true?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Of course it is true!’

‘Have you sold this to Muddiman, too?’ demanded L’Estrange. His earrings glittered as walked to the window to read the rest of the report, and Chaloner thought he moved like a tiger, all compact muscles and soft-footed tread. ‘You hope to be paid twice for the same piece?’

Chaloner half-wished he had thought of it. ‘Is that what your other sources do?’

L’Estrange finished reading and shoved the paper in his pocket. ‘They would not dare. The government newsbooks are Spymaster Williamson’s domain, and only a fool crosses him.’

Was Wenum a fool, then, wondered Chaloner. Did betraying the Spymaster account for his death, and perhaps Newburne’s, too? Was this what the Lord Chancellor wanted his spy to discover — that a powerful minister was responsible for a series of murders? And if so, was it to bring Williamson down with the disgrace, to acquire a way of controlling the Spymaster for his own ends, or to pit Chaloner against a deadly adversary to avenge himself for what he saw as a lack of loyalty?

‘If people are so frightened of Williamson, then why are Muddiman’s newsletters so often ahead of the newsbooks?’ Chaloner asked. ‘Obviously someone is not afraid to sell secrets.’

L’Estrange’s eyes narrowed, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. ‘You have a blunt tongue, and I am tempted to cut it out. The Lord Chancellor will not mind — he has complained about your insolence on several occasions.’

‘Do not stoop to violence, Roger,’ said a chubby woman, edging forward to rest her hand on his arm. She was pretty after a fashion, with pale blue eyes. ‘It will make a mess on the floor.’

L’Estrange’s expression immediately softened. ‘Mrs Hickes, my dear,’ he crooned, bending to kiss her cheek; she simpered at him. ‘You know I would do nothing to offend you.’

‘Mrs Hickes is the spouse of Williamson’s best spy,’ whispered Hodgkinson in Chaloner’s ear. ‘Hickes is also supposed to be investigating Newburne’s death, although I am told he has had scant success so far.’

‘His mind is probably on what L’Estrange is doing to his wife,’ murmured Chaloner, thinking of Mrs Muddiman and wondering whether any woman was safe from the man’s advances.

Hodgkinson chuckled. ‘I wish I knew his secret. They all seem to melt at his feet, even the ones devoted to their husbands. Like Mrs Newburne.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. Was this yet another motive for murder? ‘Did they actually-’

‘They enjoyed each other’s company when Newburne was out. Beyond that, I know nothing.’

‘Did Newburne know nothing, too?’

‘I cannot say, although it is no secret that L’Estrange has a penchant for married ladies. However, even if Newburne did not know about the visits, he certainly would have been aware that L’Estrange would go a-calling sooner or later.’

Chaloner watched Mrs Hickes leave the bookshop with the other customers, and was astonished to note that she was not the only one who flung L’Estrange a longing glance as she walked through the door. So did the wife of Mr Smith of the Bell Inn, who had apparently come to make sure the advertisement for his stolen horse was going to appear in The Newes the following day.

‘We were talking about betrayal, Heyden,’ said L’Estrange, dropping his courtly leer as soon as the ladies had gone, and only he, Hodgkinson, Brome and Joanna were left. Chaloner noticed that L’Estrange’s liking for married women did not extend to Joanna, whom he all but ignored. ‘You want to know why Muddiman always has the news before me? It is because of phanatiques.’

Joanna stepped forward, her eyes great frightened orbs. ‘It is not phanatiques,’ she said in a trembling voice, clearly uneasy at contradicting the great man. ‘Someone is sending our intelligence to rivals, but not for sinister political reasons. The traitor is being paid for them. It is all about money.’

‘Nobert Wenum,’ said Chaloner. ‘Does he work for you?’

All four looked blankly at each other. ‘I have never heard of him,’ said Brome. ‘He is nothing to do with the bookshop.’

‘And there is no one at my print-houses by that name, either,’ added Hodgkinson. ‘Who is he?’

‘The man who has been selling your secrets.’ Chaloner handed over the annotated copy of The Newes and the ledger, with a brief explanation of what each logged entry meant.

Hodgkinson snatched the paper from the startled L’Estrange. His jaw dropped and he turned to Chaloner in horror. ‘But this is not due to be made public until tomorrow! How did you come by it?’

‘And this book?’ asked Joanna, peering over L’Estrange’s shoulder. ‘Where did you find it? It proves something is amiss — just as Henry and I have suspected for weeks. Oh, dear!’

Brome’s face was filled with dismay. ‘So, it is true, after all? I was hoping we were mistaken, because betraying the official newsbooks is such a monstrous thing. Treason, in fact.’

‘I found both in a room rented by Wenum,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Apparently, he has a rash on his jaw and is probably a Hector.’

‘That describes you,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘There is a mark on your jaw, and you might be a Hector. You work for a government minister, and they are not averse to hiring felons for certain business.’

‘Do not confuse Heyden’s Earl with Williamson,’ said Joanna quietly. ‘They are not the same.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Can you think of anyone else who matches that description?’ he asked, looking at each one in turn.

Hodgkinson shook his head, L’Estrange continued to glare at the ledger, and Joanna’s expression was one of appalled disbelief. Her mouth hung open slightly, so her teeth seemed longer than usual.

‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ asked Brome. ‘The colour of his hair? His height?’

‘I have never seen him,’ said Chaloner. He pointed to the paper Hodgkinson still held. ‘However, it looks as though he was proof-reading The Newes in his lodgings. If you give me a list of the people you employ in such a capacity, I can investigate them for you.’

Brome and Joanna exchanged an acutely uncomfortable glance. ‘Perhaps you had better tell him, Mr L’Estrange,’ said Joanna unhappily. She cringed when the editor glared at her, but she stood her ground. ‘Tell him their names. Please.’

‘My proof-readers are not traitors,’ declared L’Estrange, lobbing the ledger at Chaloner to express his contempt for the evidence it provided. ‘I do not employ men for that task, and especially not Hectors with rashes. I hire women. So, you can take your damned accusations elsewhere.’

Chaloner tried to be patient. ‘Then perhaps one of these women passed the proofs to Wenum-’

‘No!’ snapped L’Estrange. ‘There are a dozen ladies who work as my proof-readers, and I can vouch for the loyalty of every one. I call them my Army of Angels, and they make a pleasant change from dealing with damned phanatiques.’ He glared around, suggesting he thought there were several damned phanatiques in the room with him at that precise moment.

‘Tell me who they are,’ pressed Chaloner. ‘If they have done nothing wrong, it will-’

‘I most certainly shall not. This is none of your affair — and none of the Lord Chancellor’s either. They are good ladies, and I will not let you loose on them.’

‘But we need this matter resolved,’ said Brome, making no effort to hide his frustration. He turned to Chaloner. ‘They are the wives of wealthy citizens who have time for the careful, painstaking work of checking type for errors. It is not difficult, but it is exacting, and not everyone has an eye for it.’

‘Ladies are better than men,’ said L’Estrange, on the defensive now. ‘Men are careless, and you never know when one might transpire to be a phanatique.’

Brome appealed to the editor’s sense of self-preservation. ‘If Williamson sees that annotated paper, he will draw the same conclusion Heyden did — that a proof-reader is responsible. We do not want him thinking we are protecting the culprit, because it will mean us losing our shop, and you losing your government appointments.’

L’Estrange scowled. ‘I worked hard for these posts. I will not let anyone take them from me.’

‘Then let us make sure no one does.’ Brome turned to Chaloner. ‘Our proof-readers include Mrs Smith and Mrs Hickes, both of whom were here just now. Also, Mrs Newburne, Mrs Muddiman …’

‘The wife of your rival?’ asked Chaloner, shocked. ‘And she does this proof-reading at home?’

‘Of course not!’ shouted L’Estrange, shooting Brome and then Chaloner furious glares. ‘She does it here. They all do. We go upstairs together, and I supervise them very closely. No draft newsbook ever leaves the premises. I am inordinately fond of Mrs Muddiman, but I am not such a fool as to let her take a pre-published journal to her husband’s lair.’

But he was fool enough to let her see them in the first place, thought Chaloner, and if she had a good memory, she might even be able to quote them verbatim to her grateful spouse. Then he recalled the way she had spoken about L’Estrange and wondered whether the editor’s piratical charm was sufficient to keep a still tongue in her head. He was bemused. Surely not every woman L’Estrange encountered fell for him, especially if she knew she was only one of dozens so favoured? Chaloner could see nothing remotely attractive in the dark, glittering features, the swinging earrings and the gap-toothed grin, but supposed there was no accounting for taste.

‘Is there a Mrs Hodgkinson?’ he asked, of the printer. ‘Is she a member of this Army of Angels?’

‘She lives in the country,’ said the printer. He shot a defiant look at L’Estrange, making Chaloner wonder whether she had been sent there for a reason.

‘Other Angels include Mrs Allestry and Mrs Nott,’ continued Brome, ignoring L’Estrange’s furious sigh at his continued revelations. ‘And then there is-’

‘The wives of the booksellers?’ interrupted Chaloner, his mind reeling. ‘The booksellers L’Estrange fined in his capacity as Surveyor of the Press?’

‘Their unfortunate marriages make no difference to their ability to highlight printing errors,’ said L’Estrange haughtily. ‘And they are pleased to help me, because I reduced their husbands’ fines substantially, out of the goodness of my heart. They are indebted to me.’

‘Apart from the Army of Angels, security is very tight,’ said Joanna, trying to be helpful. ‘All unpublished proofs are locked in a chest in Mr L’Estrange’s office. They only leave the building when they go to Mr Hodgkinson for printing.’

‘The government contract is important to me,’ added Hodgkinson, when Chaloner turned towards him. ‘I am not so rash as to risk losing it by selling news to Muddiman. My compositors produce one copy — for proof-reading — in advance of the main print-run, and I bring it to L’Estrange myself.’

‘We have a little ritual,’ said L’Estrange scathingly. ‘I lock it in my chest, and he watches.’

It was Hodgkinson’s turn to become defensive. ‘Damn right I do! I do not want to be accused of letting news escape to our rivals. I cannot imagine a worse fate than to fall foul of the Spymaster.’

‘Who has the key to this chest?’ asked Chaloner.

‘I do,’ said L’Estrange, holding it up. ‘And Newburne had the only other in existence. But this is none of your business, and I resent the implication that we are lax-’

‘Where is Newburne’s key now?’

‘I would like the answer to that question, too,’ said Brome. He flinched when L’Estrange whipped around to scowl at him.

‘It is not just your livelihood, but ours, too,’ said Joanna, going to stand next to her spouse. She swallowed uneasily when L’Estrange fixed her with his glittering eyes, and her fingers tightened around her husband’s arm. But she took a deep breath and finished what she wanted to say. ‘Henry and I have worked hard for this shop, and we love it dearly. Please answer Mr Heyden’s questions, or run the risk of Williamson asking them instead.’

‘Williamson!’ jeered L’Estrange unpleasantly. ‘How will he find out about any of this?’

‘Because I shall tell him,’ said Joanna defiantly. ‘I would rather you were cross with me than have Williamson thinking Henry and I are traitors. I will tell him about this Wenum fellow.’

Chaloner watched L’Estrange seethe with impotent rage, and was impressed that such a timid woman had mustered the courage to defy him. He suspected, however, that she had fired all her cannon with the threat, and that a serious counter-attack from L’Estrange would see her crumble. Fortunately for Joanna, L’Estrange was less adept at reading people.

‘You would not dare,’ he breathed, but there was uncertainty in his voice.

‘Would she not?’ asked Brome, putting his arm around her. His voice dripped pride. ‘There is strength in my Joanna, so you had better do as she says.’

‘I do not know where Newburne kept his key,’ L’Estrange snapped. ‘But his funeral is tomorrow, so I shall ask his widow.’

‘Good,’ said Joanna. ‘But be sure you do not forget, or I will pay a visit to White Hall.’

In the absence of anyone else to pick on, L’Estrange homed in on Chaloner. ‘Here is a shilling. I do not usually pay for news in advance of publication, but I want you gone from my office — permanently. I resent your accusations and the way you have turned my staff against me.’

‘I shall take my article about the pirates of Alicante to Muddiman, then,’ said Chaloner.

L’Estrange had been in the process of stalking from the room, but he stopped dead in his tracks, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. With a weary sigh, Brome stepped forward.

‘What Heyden meant to say was that he will be obliged to come to your office for as long as he has information to sell you,’ he said quietly. ‘He did not intend to sound insolent.’

‘You had better pay him double, though,’ said Joanna. She was buoyed up by her victory, and the rabbit face wore a small smirk of triumph when the editor turned to gape at her. ‘I have it on good authority that Muddiman pays two shillings for decent intelligence. And tales about pirates from Alicante come into the category of “decent”, I would say.’

L’Estrange seemed about to give her a piece of his mind, but she met his glower with a steady gaze, and it was he who backed down. He tossed a second shilling at Chaloner.

‘Here,’ he snarled, before rounding on the Bromes. Both flinched, and Joanna’s bravado began to slip. ‘But this is as far as your nasty rebellion goes. Any further insurgence and I shall take my business to another bookseller. I will not tolerate phanatiques in the ranks.’

He stamped from the room.

‘You were magnificent,’ said Hodgkinson to Joanna. ‘I always said L’Estrange would be lost were it not for your common sense, and today you proved it yet again. Forcing him to cooperate with the Lord Chancellor is good for us all, and you did the right thing by standing up to him. Both of you.’

Brome rubbed his eyes with shaking hands. ‘My nerves are frayed, and I need the medicinal effects of a dish of coffee. We shall go to Haye’s Coffee House and Heyden can write about the pirates there.’

‘Good,’ said Joanna. ‘Mr L’Estrange will be back to collect the advertisements soon, and we do not want him to find Mr Heyden still here. I have had enough turmoil for one day, thank you!’

While Brome went to fetch his coat, Chaloner smiled his thanks at Joanna for getting him the extra shilling. She beamed back at him, all teeth and gums. He found himself beginning to like her, appreciating how difficult it must have been for such a timid woman to oppose a charismatic bully like L’Estrange. Hodgkinson was doubtless right in that the Bromes kept L’Estrange from doing too much damage to the newsbooks — and to himself — but Chaloner doubted it was easy. He was glad he was not obliged to keep the man in check, sure it would tax his diplomatic abilities — such as they were — to the limit. The shop door rattled suddenly, and a fat, red-faced merchant waddled in.

‘May I help you?’ asked Joanna. She patted the rabbitear braids at the side of her head, and smoothed down her apron as she walked towards him. ‘We at the newsbooks are always ready to-’

‘I want to place an advertisement,’ declared the man. ‘I lost a grey gelding from the Queen’s Arms, Feversham, and everyone should know there is a reward for information leading to its safe return.’

Joanna began to write. ‘Your name, sir? And where do you-’

‘James Bradnox of Vintners’ Hall. Mr Wright told me he placed a notice in The Newes, and his nag was home within a week.’ Bradnox addressed Hodgkinson and Chaloner, assuming them to be customers, too. ‘These advertisements mean it is difficult for stolen animals to be sold on the open market — traders know what is currently missing, see. Newsbook notices are five shillings well spent.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Joanna. ‘I have been told several times that our most important function is to facilitate honesty in the horse trade. Of course, we have other functions, as well, and we-’

‘It is important,’ insisted Bradnox. ‘Far more valuable than that rubbish about phanatiques. Who cares about them? Yet we all care about horses.’

‘The newsbooks were founded to keep the people informed of current events,’ said Chaloner when Bradnox had gone. ‘Yet they are loaded with notices about missing livestock. It seems they-’

‘I know,’ cried Joanna, wringing her hands unhappily. ‘Mr L’Estrange does not mind, because they cost five shillings each and they take up space. I know it is wrong, and that people would rather have real news, but what can we do? If we did not sell advertisements, we would be limited to whatever he wants to write about phanatiques. And the occasional piece about Spanish pirates.’

‘It is just as well I am going out,’ said Brome, as he returned wearing a coat that was buttoned to his chin, as if he thought he might catch cold otherwise. ‘Mrs Chiffinch’s carriage has just pulled up outside. She looks upset, and I imagine her husband has been unfaithful again. She will not appreciate me being here, when all she wants is another woman’s ear.’

L’Estrange had also seen the coach, and was thundering down the stairs from his office, eyes and earrings gleaming. Chaloner supposed the feckless Chiffinch was about to learn that wives could be unfaithful as well as husbands — or that the Army of Angels was about to receive another recruit. He, Brome and Hodgkinson left the editor fawning over the new arrival, while Joanna hovered uncertainly in the background. Before he closed the door behind him, Chaloner saw Mrs Chiffinch looking rather pleased with the editor’s attentions, and wondered yet again what women saw in the fellow.

‘L’Estrange has a fiery temper,’ he said, as the three of them walked along Ivy Lane.

Brome nodded. ‘His sword is in and out of its scabbard like nobody’s business these days. The death of Newburne has unnerved him more than he likes to admit.’

‘And yet he does not want it investigated?’ said Chaloner.

‘Some stones are better left unturned, and Newburne really did emerge from under a particularly slimy one. I would not want the responsibility of determining what happened to him — assuming anything untoward did, of course.’

‘That surgeon’s report relieved me of the responsibility of probing further, thank God,’ said Hodgkinson fervently. ‘I wish to know no more about the affair, and neither does L’Estrange.’

‘Muddiman’s newsletters make for interesting reading,’ said Brome, off on a tangent. ‘They contain so much domestic information. I do not wish to be rude, Heyden, because I am sure Alicante is a fascinating place, but I would much rather read about events in London.’

‘Ask Williamson for some, then,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is Spymaster General, so should be awash with intelligence, not to mention political reports. If anyone can supply you with home news, it is he.’

‘And there lies the problem,’ said Brome glumly. ‘He does not like to part with it. He thinks telling the public too much about what the government does will encourage them to disagree with it.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘He is almost certainly right.’

A beggar was singing a ballad in a pitiful, wavering voice, and Brome stopped to give him a penny. It took a long time for him to unbutton his coat, locate his purse and refasten the garment again. Chaloner might have been moved to pity, too, had he not seen the fellow in the window of a nearby cook-shop earlier, enjoying a sumptuous meal. The man was a trickster, who preyed on the kind-hearted. They were about to move on when Brome happened to glance back up the road.

‘Oh, no!’ he breathed in horror.

‘Butcher Crisp!’ exclaimed Hodgkinson, equally alarmed. Chaloner saw a man in a wide-brimmed hat and a long cloak striding purposefully along the street. ‘Is he going inside your shop?’

‘Joanna!’ gasped Brome in a strangled voice. He ran a few steps, then stopped in relief. ‘No, he is passing by. Lord save us! I thought for a moment that he might have come to register a complaint about L’Estrange’s rant on criminals last week. Felons can be sensitive, and Crisp might think some of the comments were directed against him personally.’

‘They were,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘L’Estrange all but said his empire should be crushed.’

‘You should have seen the article before I edited it,’ said Brome. ‘It was full of names and unfounded accusations. I deleted them, because there is no point in asking for trouble. And thank God I did! I do not like the notion of Crisp invading our shop and venting his spleen on my Joanna.’

Nor did Chaloner. A willingness to oppose L’Estrange occasionally did not equate with being able to cope with the notorious Butcher of Smithfield. Joanna would have been out of her league.

‘Crisp often uses Ivy Lane when he travels between Smithfield and St Paul’s,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘The Hectors run a lottery in the cathedral, you see, and he likes to keep an eye on it. He is turning the corner now, Brome. You need not race home to protect your wife.’

Brome shot the printer a rueful smile. ‘Good! I am not built for dealing with rough men. Even Joanna is better at it than me. She has great courage. Not every woman could work in the same building as L’Estrange and have the strength and ingenuity to dodge his advances. I am not sure if our business would have succeeded, if it were not for her. But I do hate that man.’

‘L’Estrange?’ asked Chaloner.

Brome grimaced. ‘Actually, I admire L’Estrange, because he follows his conscience. His morality does not always coincide with my own principles, but he has the courage to do what he thinks is right, no matter what the consequences.’

‘So do fanatics,’ said Chaloner acidly. ‘That is what they are: people who think they know better than anyone else.’

Brome declined to argue. ‘When I said I hated that man, I was referring to Crisp. I am not ashamed to admit that he terrifies me.’

‘There are his Hectors,’ said Hodgkinson, pointing to several unsavoury-looking characters. ‘I did not think they would be far away. He seldom leaves his domain without them these days, although they keep their distance, to maintain the illusion that he is a normal citizen.’

‘He is not normal,’ said Brome with a shudder.

Haye’s Coffee House was another smoky, busy place, located in an alley so narrow that carts could not access it. It meant pedestrians could, though, and were not obliged to be constantly on the look-out for wheeled vehicles that did not care what they hit. A large dog sat outside, chewing what appeared to be a wad of tobacco. Inside, the owner Robert Haye had let his beans roast too long, and the air was thick with the reek of burning. The mishap did not stop him from grinding them up and seething them in boiling water, though, and the resulting beverage was far from pleasant. There were complaints galore, but Haye pointed out that coffee tasted nasty even when prepared properly, and if his patrons wanted the benefits of the aromatic herb, they should drink what they were given. Chaloner was astonished when everyone did, thinking that customers in Portugal would not have been so meekly compliant.

‘What news?’ called Brome to the throng, as he, Hodgkinson and Chaloner squeezed on to a bench where there was not really enough room for them.

‘You are the newsmonger, so you tell us,’ quipped Nott, the Lord Chancellor’s bun-haired bookseller. His companions laughed.

‘And if you have none, Nott will tell you about the vicar of Wollaston,’ said a fat man in an apothecary’s hat.

Brome exchanged an uneasy glance with Hodgkinson. ‘We are carrying that story in tomorrow’s Newes, so how do you know it already?’

Nott held up a handwritten newsletter. ‘The vicar’s Book of Common Prayer was so besmeared with tar and grease that he was obliged to use another one to conduct the divine service. I warrant L’Estrange will blame phanatiques.’

There was more laughter, and Brome looked dismayed. ‘Damn this Wenum and his treachery! I am not a violent man, but I would like to punch him for what he is doing to us. Will you stop him, Heyden? I know L’Estrange told you not to meddle, but this cannot go on.’

‘Wenum is dead,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But he may have had connections to Newburne. And I am obliged to investigate him, because the Lord Chancellor ordered me to do so.’

‘Good,’ said Brome. ‘However, I recommend you do not tell L’Estrange. It would be a pity to lose you to his ready sword.’

Hodgkinson pulled a face when he tasted Haye’s beverage. ‘Try a pipe, Heyden. It takes away the taste of coffee, which is the only reason men smoke. If there was no coffee, there would be no need for tobacco.’

‘I disagree,’ said Brome, tearing his thoughts away from dead men and stolen news. ‘Tobacco has its own virtues, and its popularity is quite independent of coffee. Joanna likes a pipe on occasion, but she would never touch coffee.’

‘I bought a notice in The Newes last month,’ announced the fat apothecary. ‘I lost a bay gelding from near the pump in Chancery Lane, and was hoping an advertisement might see it home. Tom Wright got his beast back when he bought a notice, and so did Captain Hammond. But I am still waiting for mine to appear.’

‘You are just unlucky, Reeves,’ said Nott. ‘Not everyone who advertises is fortunate enough to have his property returned. The thieves must have taken it into the country, away from the influence of the newsbooks. Not everyone reads them once you get past Islington.’

‘We were talking about the relative virtues of coffee and tobacco, Reeves,’ said Brome, not wanting to discuss business when he could be relaxing. ‘Which do you prefer?’

‘Tobacco, of course,’ replied Reeves. ‘But we were talking about horses, which is far more interesting. Unless you have news to impart? And I do not mean foreign stuff, either. How is the Queen? The last I heard, she had distemper. My dog had that, and it was not pretty.’

‘You had better call it an “indisposition” next time,’ whispered Hodgkinson to Brome. ‘Reeves is not the first one to question your use of “distemper”. I know it is what the Court physicians told you, but they obviously do not know how to communicate with the general public, and you do not want to be responsible for the rumour that the Queen is a hound.’

‘She is a good lady,’ said Chaloner coolly, thinking of the small woman with the dark, unhappy eyes who had asked him to go to Portugal. ‘You should never write anything disparaging about her.’

‘William Smegergill is murdered,’ said Nott, addressing the room in general. ‘His brains dashed out, and then his head forced into a puddle until he drowned.’

‘Oddsfish!’ exclaimed Reeves. ‘That is an unpleasant way to go! I heard he had taken to playing strange music of late, and that Maylord did the same. On one occasion, they bowed a discordant harmony at Court, and the King was obliged to order them to stop.’

Nott tamped more tobacco into his pipe. ‘What an odd coincidence! L’Estrange has been doing the same thing. My shop is opposite, as you know, and I often hear him playing. For the last three weeks, he has been practising some very nasty tunes.’

‘Foreign jigs,’ elaborated Reeves darkly. ‘They are probably designed to bewitch us, so Dutchmen can steal our horses while we listen. Why do you think they have built themselves a navy?’

‘To develop trade routes to Africa, America and the Far East,’ replied Chaloner. He knew a lot about the Dutch, and their navy was an interesting subject to him. ‘They are expanding their-’

‘Rubbish,’ said Reeves, evidently not of a mind for erudite discussion. ‘They want our horses, and anyone who disagrees with me does not deserve to own one.’

Thurloe and Temperance had been right when they said no one at Newgate would know Mary Cade, and even the two shillings Chaloner had earned from L’Estrange did not buy him the information he had hoped for. It was not easy to part with funds that could have been spent on food, but he reminded himself that a few lean days were a small price to pay for his friend’s welfare. One warden, more helpful than the others, suggested he try the Fleet Prison, because it held mostly debtors, and the woman in the picture looked too well fed to be the common kind of criminal. Chaloner supposed it was worth a try, although he was loath to set foot in another gaol that day. Visiting Newgate had left him nauseous, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to enter a prison without the uncomfortable sense that he might never come out.

That evening, he played his viol, then sat at the table, studying the music he had taken from Maylord’s chimney. It made no more sense to him than the rest of his investigation, and when he attempted to play it, his landlord hammered on the wall to make him stop. He wondered why the old musician had kept such dismal compositions when the best place for them was on the fire. Chaloner might have put them there, had he been able to afford the fuel to light one.

He was too restless to sleep, mostly because he was hungry and there was nothing to eat. When he saw it had stopped raining, he went out, not with any specific destination in mind, but just to prowl around the city that was now his home. He glanced at the lamp-lit windows of the Golden Lion before he left, and was bemused to see Giles Dury there. The assistant news-monger was gazing absently into the street, and although Chaloner could think of no earthly reason why Dury should be watching him, he still slipped back inside his house and exited through the back door instead.

He wandered aimlessly, alert to the sounds of the night: the rumble of drunken voices from alehouses, the shriller babble of an argument in a coffee house, the distant howling of a pack of dogs, and the ever-present roar of water rushing under London Bridge. He went all the way to Cripplegate without anyone giving him more than a passing glance. When he arrived at Monkwell Street, he took refuge in the gate to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, standing so still that he was invisible to all but those with the very sharpest eyes. Leybourn’s house was lit in two places. The attic on the top floor had a lamp, and Chaloner could see his friend working there, snatching books from the shelves around him with a fierce concentration that said he was deep in one of his incomprehensible theories.

The second light was at the back, so Chaloner scaled a wall and dropped silently into the garden. He walked stealthily towards the kitchen and looked through the window. Mary sat by the hearth, and three men were with her, all drinking from Leybourn’s best silver goblets. Chaloner regarded them thoughtfully. They were the same three who had attacked him and Smegergill, and then who had chased him at the Rhenish Wine House: Nose, the leader, and his henchmen, the Scot and Fingerless. Mary had obviously not been boasting when she claimed to know dangerous people. Yet surely she could not have set her cronies after him that night? They had exchanged a few cool words by that point, but nothing to warrant murder. Or had she already identified Chaloner as a threat to her plans, and had decided to act promptly?

He could not hear what the foursome were saying to each other, and suspected they were keeping their voices low so as not to be heard upstairs. He looked at the door that led to the hallway and saw a piece of twine emerging from under it. He did not understand its significance until he heard the faint jangle of a bell. Immediately, the men rose and made for the back door. As they left, the Scot and Fingerless shoved Leybourn’s goblets in their pockets, although Nose left his on the table. None of them noticed Chaloner in the shadows. A few moments later, Leybourn appeared, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Mary insinuated herself into her arms, and he bent to kiss her.

Chaloner turned away and made his way home.