Susanna Gregory - The Butcher Of Smithfield

‘Pepys is a clerk at the navy office,’ said Chaloner, watching him intently. ‘I met him once.’

Brome was appalled. ‘You know Pepys? Lord!’

Chaloner was amused when he guessed the reason for Brome’s agitation. ‘Pepys does not subscribe to Muddiman’s newsletter, does he? You just borrowed his name, because he is respectable but relatively insignificant, and no one at Muddiman’s office would question his desire to purchase such a thing. Meanwhile, Muddiman thinks his missives are being read by a navy clerk, blissfully unaware that it actually goes straight into the hands of his greatest rival.’

Brome coloured even further. ‘It sounds sordid when you put it like that. Muddiman sends out a hundred and fifty newsletters each week, so what difference can one more make? Besides, how else are we to monitor the competition?’

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. ‘This was not your idea, was it? And nor did you elect to pick on Pepys. Whose was it? L’Estrange’s?’

Brome put his hands over his face and scrubbed his flushed cheeks. ‘He will skin me alive if he finds out I was careless enough to leave that lying around for the Lord Chancellor’s man to see. I told him it was stupid to use Pepys, but he would not listen. What if Muddiman meets Pepys, and asks how he likes the newsletters? It was only ever a matter of time before we were found out.’

‘So why take the risk?’

‘Because we need to know what is in them. Muddiman’s sources are invariably better than ours.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘How so? The newsbooks’ source of information is the government — and the government knows everything, because it receives a constant stream of information from its spies.’ He knew this for a fact, because he was one of those conduits.

Brome swallowed. ‘I am afraid you have walked into a war here, Heyden. A news war. You are right: we should have the stories first, but the reality is quite different. Muddiman has contacts and methods — God alone knows who and what they are — which mean he nearly always pre-empts us.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘He was the newsbook editor himself until a few weeks ago. That means he knows the government clerks who provide this information. Perhaps he bribes them to speak to him first. It would be a risky thing to do on the clerks’ part, because if Spymaster Williamson finds out I doubt he will be very forgiving. But it is not impossible.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘It is not impossible. However, Williamson’s spies maintain the clerks are innocent. They watch them all the time, and have observed nothing untoward. So, we do not know how Muddiman always manages to get the news first.’

‘What was Newburne’s role in all this?’

Brome was startled by the question. ‘I suppose you heard Smith consoling me about his death, did you? Poor Newburne! His remit was to spy on the booksellers and keep an eye on Muddiman’s dealings. Why do you ask about him particularly?’

‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to confirm that his death was a natural one,’ said Chaloner, deciding to be honest in the hope of learning more.

‘As well as providing us with information about Portugal?’ asked Brome doubtfully. ‘You own a strange combination of talents. And why does the Earl think something is amiss anyway?’

‘He did not say — he just ordered me to look into the matter.’

Brome regarded him unhappily. ‘That will almost certainly prove to be dangerous. Newburne was an unsavoury man who knew a good many unsavoury people. Hectors, no less.’

‘The Smithfield gang?’

‘The very same. I am not exaggerating: you would be ill-advised to delve into Newburne’s affairs. However, if you are under orders from the Lord Chancellor, I suspect you have no choice. So, if you promise to say nothing about our unlawful use of Pepys’s name to procure those newsletters, I will tell you what I know of Newburne. Do I have your word, as a gentleman?’

‘You do.’

Chaloner was astonished when Brome took a deep breath and began to speak — the man was naively trusting of someone he had only just met. ‘Newburne took bribes from some of the booksellers he caught breaking the law. He told them a gift to him would work out cheaper than a fine from L’Estrange.’

‘How do you know?’ Chaloner was disappointed: he already knew this.

‘Because I overheard their discussions, and I witnessed several payments made. I pretended not to notice, because I did not want to end up crushed between him and L’Estrange. He was an associate of Ellis Crisp, you see.’

‘Who is Ellis Crisp?’

Brome regarded him incredulously. ‘Are you jesting? You must have heard of Ellis Crisp.’

‘I am only recently returned from Portugal.’

‘Perhaps you are, but even so …’ Good manners helped Brome overcome his disbelief at what he clearly regarded as rank ignorance. ‘Crisp is the butcher who controls Smithfield — not the legitimate business of selling meat and livestock, but the underworld that thrives in the area. He owns the Hectors, and it is his bidding they do. He is the most dangerous man in London. So now do you see why I urge you to caution as regards Newburne?’

Chaloner nodded, although he had never heard of Crisp, and doubted the man would prove too daunting an opponent. He was grateful for the warning, though. He wondered if the Earl knew a powerful felon might be involved in Newburne’s death, which led him yet again to question his master’s reasons for ordering the investigation.

‘Do you think Crisp killed Newburne, then?’

Brome was startled. ‘No, I think Newburne died from eating cucumbers, although I suppose he might have been forced to consume them against his will. I doubt it was by Crisp, though, because Newburne was said to be one of his most valued employees. On the other hand, Crisp is the kind of man to kill a wayward minion. There are many tales about the untamed violence of the man they call the Butcher of Smithfield.’

‘The Butcher of Smithfield?’ echoed Chaloner incredulously. He was tempted to smile, but he did not want to offend someone who was trying to be helpful. He struggled to keep his expression blank. ‘Does this title refer to his profession or his penchant for “untamed violence”?’

‘Both, I imagine, although I do not think he has much to do with the meat trade any more. However, I have been told that his pastries offer a convenient repository for his victims’ bodies.’

This time Chaloner did not attempt to control his amusement, and laughed openly. ‘Then I doubt it is a very lucrative business. There cannot be many cannibals in London, and no one else will be inclined to dine on pies that own that sort of reputation.’

Brome shrugged and looked away, and Chaloner saw the bookseller thought there might well be truth in the rumours. Not wanting to argue, he changed the subject.

‘Can I see L’Estrange today, or should I come back later?’

Brome forced a smile. ‘I will ask for an interview now. If you are from the Earl of Clarendon, he will probably want to meet you. But be warned — he was not in a friendly frame of mind earlier, so you may have to … to speak with caution, so as not to ignite his fragile temper.’

‘He will not risk annoying the Earl by slicing the ears off his messengers.’

Brome regarded him as though he was mad. ‘He does not care who he annoys — which makes for a good editor, I suppose. If you give me a moment, I will present him with Mr Smith’s advertisement first. It will put him in a better mood, because it means five shillings in the newsbooks’ coffers.’

Bookshops were always pleasant places in which to while away time, and Chaloner was perfectly content to browse in Brome’s while he waited to be summoned to L’Estrange’s office. He noticed some of the texts had been penned by L’Estrange himself, most of them virulent attacks on Catholics, Puritans, science, Dutchmen, Quakers and, of course, phanatiques. Then he saw one that contained speeches made by some of the regicides before their executions. He took it down, and was startled to find a monologue by his uncle, who had neither been executed nor delivered a homily about what he had done. He read it in distaste, supposing L’Estrange had made it up. His uncle had been no saint, but he would never have uttered the viciously sectarian sentiments recorded in the poisonous little pamphlet, either. He replaced it on the shelf, feeling rather soiled for having touched it.