Susanna Gregory - The Butcher Of Smithfield

‘I will start tomorrow.’

‘I do not think people will be rushing to help once they learn your aim is to investigate Newburne’s death — assuming there is anything to explore, of course. Even rotten lawyers die of natural causes sometimes. Meanwhile, Williamson will object to your interference, and the Earl is angry with you for leaving England for so long. Trust no one — not even Leybourn, I am sorry to say.’

It was good advice, and Chaloner fully intended to follow it.

It was dark when Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn and began to walk to Monkwell Street near Cripplegate, where Leybourn lived. Although the streets were still busy, a different kind of citizen was beginning to emerge for business. Men tried to bump into him as he went, in an attempt to pick his pockets, and youths with dirty faces and oily hands offered to sell him goods at improbably low prices. Chaloner had no money to pay a linksman to light his path, and closed his mind to what he might be treading in as he made his way along the wide thoroughfare called Holborn. Shops were still open, and displays of gloves, spices, wigs, baskets, pots and mirrors could be seen within. Stray dogs had formed a pack near the bridge that spanned the filthy Fleet River, and were feeding on something that lay in the road; they snarled at anyone who went too close.

It took him a long time to reach Leybourn’s home, because the streets were so badly flooded. He gave up trying to keep his feet dry, and sloshed through the debris-filled puddles, some of which reached his calves. Thick, sucking mud gripped the wheels of carriages and carts, so their owners had scant control over them, and in some places, they had been abandoned altogether. One lay on its side, and a gang of men were stripping it of anything that could be carried away. Another had caught fire when one of its lamps had been shaken loose by a violent skidding motion; vagrants clustered around, warming their hands in the blaze. Through the flames, Chaloner could see a figure trapped inside, and did not like to imagine what the parish constables would find when they came to clear the wreckage in the morning.

He dived into a doorway when several horsemen cantered recklessly towards him, whooping and cheering as they went. They reeled drunkenly in their saddles, and one had a semi-naked woman perched behind him. A passing leatherworker grimaced in distaste at the spectacle.

‘That was the Duke of Buckingham and his cronies. Do we really want them playing ambassador to hostile foreign powers, or directing our country’s fiscal policies?’

‘Not for me to say.’ Because Spymaster Williamson was notorious for hiring spies to goad men into making seditious remarks — it was the sort of activity that gave intelligence officers a bad name — Chaloner never indulged in contentious discussions with people who accosted him on the street.

The man spat. ‘Was it for this that we cheered ourselves hoarse at the Restoration three years ago? Perhaps Cromwell was right when he cut off the last monarch’s head. Have you heard the talk in the coffee houses? They say there has been a great rebellion in the north.’

He moved away, leaving Chaloner wondering how the Court had managed to squander so much goodwill in such a short space of time. He was thoughtful as he resumed his journey, considering what he would do if the country was plunged into another civil war. His family still regarded the Parliamentarian cause to be a just one, but he had recently come to the realisation that one government was pretty much as bad as another. They all comprised men, after all, with men’s weaknesses and faults.

Leybourn owned a pleasant three-storeyed building, with shop, reception rooms and kitchen on the ground floor, and bedrooms and an office above. Chaloner had spent many peaceful hours in the large, steamy kitchen, listening to the surveyor wax lyrical on some incomprehensible aspect of mathematics or geometry. The Leybourn brothers did well at bookselling, although Will was beginning to leave more of the business to Rob, in order to devote time to his own writing.

Chaloner knocked on the door. Had Leybourn lived alone, he would have picked the lock and let himself in, but now the house was shared with a lady, breaking and entering was no longer a polite thing to do. There was no reply, so he tapped again. He could see shadows moving under the window shutters, so someone was in, and he wondered whether Leybourn was so angry with him that he was declining to answer. He rapped a third time, and was about to give up when the door was hauled open.

A woman stood there. He supposed she was pretty, although there was something dissipated about her plump body and the sluttish way she leaned against the wall. She wore a low-cut smock that revealed an ample frontage, and her cheeks were flushed in a manner that suggested she had been drinking. When she leaned towards him, squinting in the dim light, he was sure of it.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

He smiled, eager to make a good impression on the person who now shared his friend’s life. ‘I have come to see Will. You must be Mary.’

‘I am Mrs Leybourn ,’ she replied tartly. Her expression was cold and angry. ‘I suppose you are Heyden? William said he expected you home any day now.’

‘Is he in?’ Chaloner asked pleasantly. ‘I would like-’

‘No,’ she snapped in a way that made him question whether she was telling the truth. ‘Why? Have you come to borrow money? He told me you never have any of your own.’

‘I have just come to spend an hour in his company,’ he objected, wondering what else Leybourn had said about him. He struggled to maintain an affable mien, fighting the urge to tell her that the purpose of his visit was none of her damned business. ‘It has been a while since we-’

‘He is out,’ she interrupted coldly. ‘You will have to come back another day.’

Chaloner could hear voices in the kitchen, and one definitely belonged to a man. If it was not Leybourn, then who was the surveyor’s ‘wife’ entertaining when he was out? ‘I see.’

She moved quickly, blocking his view down the corridor. ‘I am busy at the moment, so I cannot invite you inside to wait. The vicar of St Giles is here, asking my opinion about the altar decorations for Christmas. I am sure you understand. Goodbye.’

She closed the door before he could say whether he understood or not. He considered knocking again, and telling her that he had considerable experience with altar decorations and was more than happy to grant her and the vicar the benefit of his expertise. His second notion was to creep around the back of the house and look through the kitchen window. The vicar of St Giles was unlikely to be talking to himself while Mary had gone to answer the door, and he wanted to know whether it was Leybourn with whom he was conversing. But he was cold, wet and not in the mood for what might evolve into a nasty confrontation, so he started to trudge back to his lodgings. He had not taken many steps when he saw a familiar figure — tall, stoop-shouldered and wearing an old-fashioned hat.

‘I have been waiting for you at your house,’ said Leybourn in a rush. ‘I wanted to apologise for snapping at you earlier. I have not been sleeping well, and Thurloe has become like an old woman of late, chastising me for this and that. But I should not have taken my irritation out on you.’

Chaloner was relieved the spat was over. He took a deep breath. ‘I have been in Portugal since June. Spain, too, although I went to spy, so the fewer people who know it, the better. I did not intend to be secretive, but it is a difficult habit to break.’

‘I understand,’ said Leybourn, turning him around and beginning to walk towards his home. ‘I should not have tried to pry, although I am a scholar, and curiosity comes naturally to me. Did you meet any mathematicians in Portugal? They are famous for their theories pertaining to navigation.’