Susanna Gregory: The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chaloner was startled by the elaborate description of a house he had visited dozens of times. ‘I have only been gone four months, Bulteel — not long enough to forget that sort of thing.’

Bulteel gave his wan, unhappy smile. ‘It feels more like four years, but then time passes so slowly here, especially when His Lordship is suffering from the gout. It makes him terribly irritable.’

Grimly, Chaloner recalled that gout made the Lord Chancellor a lot more than just ‘irritable’. ‘He has been venting his temper on you, has he? Because he is unwell?’

Bulteel winced. ‘His ailment has not plagued him as badly as it did in the winter, but his temper has not improved, even so. Watch what you say, and try not to be insolent if you can help it. You have a cynical tongue, and he is less inclined to overlook that sort of thing when his legs are hurting.’

As Chaloner turned to leave, the glitter of gold caught his eye; something had fallen between the wall and the table. When he bent to retrieve it, he found himself holding an elaborate pendant, which was studded with jewels that were probably rubies. He handed it to the clerk.

‘I imagine someone will be missing this. Is it yours?’

Bulteel gazed at it in astonishment. ‘It is Lady Clarendon’s love locket! She lost it last week, and the Earl and I spent hours hunting for it. Eventually, he decided it must have been stolen. Well, actually, he thought I had taken it, if you want the truth. They will both be pleased to see it safe.’

‘The Earl will owe you an apology when you give it back, then.’

Bulteel regarded it wistfully. ‘I doubt he will bother. But you found it, so you should be the one to take the credit for its discovery. It will earn you his good graces.’

‘Do you think I need his good graces?’ asked Chaloner, shaking his head when the secretary attempted to pass the bauble back again. He did not want to walk out of White Hall with a valuable piece of jewellery; it was the sort of thing that landed men in trouble.

Bulteel smiled sadly. ‘We all do. This is White Hall, after all.’

Chaloner was crossing the expanse of open space called the Palace Court, intending to visit Worcester House straight away, when he saw a man called Thomas Greeting, who basked in the lofty title of Musician in Ordinary to the King’s Private Music. Greeting was a handsome, grey-haired fellow in his forties, whose splendid attire and confident swagger made him more courtier than entertainer. He was in great demand as tutor to the wealthy, because he specialised in teaching the flageolet, which was an easy instrument to master. He was ambitious, greedy and Chaloner considered him deceitful.

‘Heyden,’ said Greeting pleasantly. ‘What news?’

‘What news?’ was the accepted salute for anyone entering a coffee-house, and Chaloner supposed the musician was showing himself to be a man of culture by using it. He did notice, however, that Greeting’s clothes were showing signs of wear up close, and that his elegant shoes needed re-heeling.

‘I hear Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges are good for ensuring sweetness of the breath,’ he replied flippantly, thinking about the altercation outside the Rainbow Coffee House.

Greeting raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been reading the newsbooks, have you? It is scandalous that L’Estrange is allowed to fill them with rubbish such as that — men do spend hard-earned cash on the things, after all. Not me, of course. I cannot afford such luxuries, not on the salary White Hall pays me. I am all but destitute, if you want the truth.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Chaloner knew how he felt — his own worldly wealth at that moment comprised sixpence. He only hoped the clerks at the Accompting House — who did not work on Sundays — would not be difficult when he went to claim his back-pay the following morning.

‘I live in constant fear of arrest for debt,’ Greeting went on bitterly. ‘And I have been forced to move from my lovely house near Lambeth Palace to a hovel in Smithfield. Still, such is the lot of a lowly Court musician.’

‘Speaking of musicians, have you seen Maylord today? He wants to meet me.’

Greeting’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been away? Yes, you must have been, because I have not seen you since that trouble involving the barber-surgeons last spring. You had some sort of set-to with Spymaster Williamson, and then you very wisely disappeared.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘You think I ran away?’

Greeting shrugged. ‘I would, had I incurred Williamson’s displeasure. Our new Spymaster is not a man to cross, and folk do so at their peril. Several bold fellows are now banished to remote villages for speaking their minds, although at least they are alive to reflect on their folly. Not all his enemies are allowed to live, so I have heard.’

‘Williamson kills men he does not like?’ Chaloner was not sure he believed it. Spymasters were powerful men, with a lot of dubious resources at their fingertips, but only a very stupid one would use them for personal vendettas, and Williamson was far from stupid.

Greeting looked uncomfortable. ‘We should not be discussing such a topic, especially in White Hall. Nonetheless, I urge you to be careful. He does not like you — I heard him say so myself.’

‘That was indiscreet of him,’ said Chaloner disapprovingly. He could not imagine Cromwell’s old Spymaster, John Thurloe, ever making such a comment in front of a loose-tongued man like Greeting. Of course, Thurloe’s attitude to his work had been efficient and professional, and Williamson fell far short by comparison. ‘What did he say, exactly?’

Greeting shrugged. ‘Just that you were involved in the untimely death of a friend, and he resents you for it. I would stay low, if I were you.’

Chaloner hoped the Earl’s next commission would allow him to do so. And while it was true that one of Williamson’s cronies had met a violent end in Chaloner’s company, it had not been the spy’s fault. He felt it was unreasonable of Williamson to blame him for the mishap.

‘Maylord,’ he prompted. ‘Does he still live on Thames Street?’

Greeting frowned. ‘I had forgotten you and he were acquainted. He taught your father the viol, I understand, and was kind to you when you first arrived in London. He was a good man, and we all miss him. He died on Friday.’

Chaloner stared at him in shock. ‘No! I do not believe you.’

Greeting’s expression was sympathetic. ‘It is true, although I sincerely wish it were otherwise. He died of eating cucumbers.’

Chaloner gaped at him. Like all Englishmen, he knew cucumbers could be dangerous when eaten raw, but he had never heard of anyone actually dying from them. And surely Maylord could not be dead? Chaloner had known him all his life, and loved the old man’s sweet temper and innate decency. ‘He died on Friday?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

‘Friday evening. He had been asking after you, too.’

‘Asking after me when? The day he died?’

Greeting shook his head. ‘Earlier — when he and I performed in Smithfield last Wednesday. He wanted to know if I had seen you, and was oddly distressed when I told him I had not.’

‘Do you know why?’

Greeting shook his head again. ‘But something was troubling the poor old devil, and it is a pity you were not here, because he clearly needed a friend. What do you think was upsetting him? Something to do with his music?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Chaloner, wishing with all his heart that he had been on hand to answer the old man’s call for help. His fingers curled tightly around the letter in his pocket. ‘And now I probably never will.’