Susanna Gregory - The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chaloner heard the bleakness in his own voice as he spoke. ‘No, it was dreadful, Will — one of the worst assignments I have ever been given.’ Leybourn looked sympathetic, so he added, ‘With the possible exception of a woman called Isabella.’

Leybourn gave him a manly nudge and grinned. ‘I knew it! I always envied your luck with ladies. But I have Mary now, and such concerns are a thing of the past. I have told her a lot about you, and she will be delighted to make your acquaintance at last.’

Chaloner held back. ‘It is late, and she may be busy.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Leybourn. ‘At least come and share a cup of metheglin with us. Have you ever tried metheglin? It is spiced, fermented honey, and Mary knows where to buy it at its best.’ He flung open his door before Chaloner could decline. ‘Mary! I am home, and Tom is with me.’

He strode along the corridor, heading for the kitchen. Chaloner heard chair legs rasp on flagstones as someone stood quickly, and then there was a metallic click as the latch on the back door was raised. Leybourn stumbled over a stool that had been left in the unlit hall, long legs becoming hopelessly entangled as he struggled to extricate himself. Chaloner saw it had been placed there deliberately, to give the occupants of the kitchen time to finish whatever it was they were doing before the surveyor walked in on them. Leybourn freed himself eventually, and pushed open the door.

Mary hurled herself forward and clutched his head to her neck, giving him the kind of welcome that he might have expected had he been away months, rather than hours. Wryly, Chaloner noticed that the hug also served to blind him, so he did not spot the door to the garden closing surreptitiously. He wondered why Mary’s companions — at least two of them, as there were three empty goblets in the hearth — should be so eager to escape without being seen. When she released Leybourne, leaving him somewhat breathless, the surveyor turned to Chaloner.

‘This is Mary,’ he said, pride and adoration in every word.

‘ Mrs Leybourn,’ said Chaloner, with a bow.

She regarded him coolly, then sat in the surveyor’s favourite chair. ‘I have been working hard today, and I am exhausted. Fetch me a drink, dear William. Metheglin will do nicely.’

‘What happened to the vicar?’ asked Chaloner caustically. ‘Is he in the garden, exploring its contents with a view to claiming his Christmas decorations early?’

Leybourn gazed at him in confusion. ‘Mary has been alone all day, sewing me new shirts. And why would the vicar be in the garden? It is dark.’

Chaloner could see no evidence that shirts or anything else were being sewn, but Mary had risen, and had gone to drape herself around her man. Leybourn smiled fondly as she told him how lonely she had been, with no one for company, and Chaloner saw Thurloe was right: Leybourn was so besotted, he would believe the moon was blue if Mary told him so.

‘I will hire you a female companion,’ offered Leybourn, going to the hearth and ladling something into three wooden cups. Chaloner recoiled from the strength of the brew, and knew it would make him drunk if he downed it on an empty stomach. ‘A maid would be useful, now two of us live here.’

Chaloner agreed, because Leybourn’s usually pleasant kitchen was sordid. Unwashed pots were piled on every surface, a bucket of slops had been sitting so long that there was mould growing in the scum across the top, and the floor was sticky, making him feel like wiping his feet on the way out. He was not the most assiduous of housekeepers himself, but at least he usually scoured his dirty pans within a day, and he never left uneaten food on plates for so long that it rotted. The room was a disgrace, and he was surprised his friend could not see it.

‘I do not want a companion,’ said Mary, rather too quickly. ‘You are soaking, poor love! Come and sit by the fire, and warm yourself before you take a chill.’

‘I could eat a horse,’ declared Leybourn, allowing himself to be cosseted. ‘What do we have?’

‘Beetroot,’ said Mary, waving her hand in a gesture that indicated it might be anywhere.

‘I should be going,’ said Chaloner, backing away. He was also hungry, but not desperate enough to resort to beetroot.

‘Please stay,’ said Leybourn, although he spoke absently and most of his attention was on Mary. ‘I want to show you Christopher Wren’s treatise on weather glasses.’

‘Another time,’ said Chaloner. He set the metheglin on the table. ‘It has been a pleasure, Mrs Leybourn.’

Early the next morning, Chaloner woke thinking about Leybourn’s infatuation with Mary. He supposed he should be grateful that their union had not been sanctioned by the Church, because it would be easier to dissolve when — and he was sure it was only a matter of time — Leybourn came to his senses and saw he could do very much better. What was Mary gaining from the arrangement? The answer was obvious: a life of luxury with a man who thought she could do no wrong, gifts, and a home in which to entertain when her lover was out. Chaloner could see exactly why she did not want her victim’s friends interfering with her business.

But the spy’s first duty that day was not Leybourn, but the investigation into Newburne’s death, which he would begin by visiting L’Estrange on Ivy Lane. He found a green front-buttoned coat he had always liked, and a pair of loose breeches. It was not the most fashionable of attires, but it was warm, functional and not too moth-or mouse-ravaged. His boots were sturdy and good for walking, and Isabella’s hat would keep both sun and rain from his eyes. Having unimpaired vision was important in his line of work, and although he did not expect the day to bring too many dangers — at least, not like the kind he had recently endured in Spain — he was too experienced to be complacent.

The only thing to eat was a lump of dried meat from the last of his travelling supplies, so he soaked it in water until it was soft. He offered some to the cat, which turned up its nose and went to sit in the window. It began to wash its face, and a gnawed tail near the hearth told him it had acquired itself a fresher meal while he had been sleeping. The dried meat was sadly rancid, and he supposed he should spend his last sixpence to lay in some essential supplies, although it would not buy much and he did not like the notion of being totally penniless. He decided to visit White Hall and claim his back-pay as soon as he had a spare moment.

It had rained heavily during the night, and dawn bathed the streets in a cold, grey light that turned the sodden buildings to shades of brown and beige. It made the city look ugly, and so did the piles of manure, kitchen filth and rubbish that sat at irregular intervals along the sides of the road, each glistening and slick with slime. Dogs and rats scavenged among them, while kites and pigeons perched on the rooftops and waited their turn.

Ivy Lane was a narrow thoroughfare that ran north from St Paul’s Cathedral, and Brome’s Bookshop, in which L’Estrange had his headquarters, was in the middle, near the junction with Paternoster Row. It was a large, well-appointed building with freshly painted timbers and real glass in the windows. The first floor was L’Estrange’s domain — Chaloner could see him pacing back and forth in front of a desk — while the attics comprised living accommodation for the bookseller and his family. The ground floor housed the shop itself, a spacious chamber with neat rows of shelves.

Chaloner pushed open a door that jangled, and entered. The books on sale comprised mostly government-sponsored publications on such diverse subjects as the trees of Bermuda, theology, and various editions of the Seaman’s Kalender . The floor was clean, the tables dusted, and the entire place gave off an air of quiet efficiency. For all that, Chaloner preferred the chaotic jumble of Leybourn’s premises, although he was sure Brome would be able to access any tome in his collection within moments, whereas it sometimes took Leybourn days to locate a specific book. Brome’s was a place for busy men who knew what they wanted; Leybourn’s was for browsers.