Susanna Gregory: The Butcher Of Smithfield

‘But you told me to go,’ objected Chaloner, becoming alarmed. Because he had been a spy for Cromwell’s regime, the King’s government was wary of him, and would never employ him in its intelligence service. Luckily, the Earl was capable of recognising talent when he saw it, and was willing to overlook former allegiances. However, if he changed his mind, then Chaloner was in trouble, because no one else would hire him, and he was qualified to do very little else. ‘Indeed, you ordered it.’

‘As I said, I assumed you would be clever enough to devise an excuse that would keep you at my side,’ snapped the Earl. ‘I suppose you were seduced by the money she gave you for your expenses, and by the reward she promised you on your return.’

‘Speaking of which, I have sixpence left. Do you think you could arrange an audience with her? The rent is overdue and the cupboard is bare.’

Clarendon looked a little spiteful. ‘Her Majesty is unwell, and the physicians are not letting anyone see her at the moment, so you will have to wait. Let us hope her illness does not cause her to forget her promises. It would be a pity to have risked your life and livelihood for a profit of sixpence.’

Chaloner decided he had better change the subject before the disagreement saw him in even deeper water. ‘Your secretary says there is something you would like me to do, sir. How may I help?’

‘Does he indeed?’ muttered the Earl venomously. ‘Well, there is something, as it so happens.’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner, when his master did not elaborate.

The Earl waved his hand carelessly. Chaloner had learned this was a bad sign, and that a dismissive flap from the Lord Chancellor invariably meant his spy was going to be asked to do something that was dangerous, only marginally legal, or both.

‘Have you heard about the new-style government newsbooks that came into being in August? One is called The Intelligencer , and it is published on Mondays. The other is called The Newes, and it comes out on Thursdays. They are edited by a man named L’Estrange, and Londoners complain that they are characterised by a marked absence of domestic news.’

‘Before I left, the newsbooks had different names, and were edited by Henry Muddiman.’

‘Things change fast in London,’ said Clarendon pointedly. ‘Sneak away for four months, and you will return to find nothing as you left it. But we are supposed to be talking about my business, not yours. The Intelligencer and The Newes superseded Muddiman’s publications, and they are now the only two newsbooks in the country. Spymaster Williamson appointed L’Estrange to edit them. He made him Surveyor of the Press, too.’

‘The posts of official censor and chief journalist are held by the same man?’ Chaloner tried not to sound shocked. It was a deplorable state of affairs, because it meant any ‘intelligence’ or ‘newes’ printed would be what the government had decided the public could have. He was surprised Williamson had been allowed to get away with it. However, it certainly explained why the newsbooks contained nothing of home affairs — the government did not want people to know what it was up to.

The Earl shot him a rueful glance. ‘It was not my idea, I assure you. Of course I am happy for the general populace to be kept in the dark about matters it cannot possibly comprehend, but this is too brazen an approach. And it is having a negative effect, in that anything we publish now is automatically regarded as political propaganda and is taken with a pinch of salt.’

‘And rightly so, because that is exactly what it will be. Williamson’s decision is a foolish one. A man of his intellect should know better.’

The Earl sighed. ‘Williamson ousted Muddiman with a shocking bit of deviousness, and appointed L’Estrange in his place. L’Estrange is totally loyal to the government, but he is too opinionated to be a good journalist. Muddiman is a far better newsman, and we should have left him alone.’

‘I saw Muddiman and L’Estrange arguing today, about whether an advertisement for lozenges can be classified as an item of news.’

‘I am not surprised — Muddiman has high standards of news-telling, while L’Estrange will include anything that uses up space. They differ fundamentally.’

‘What exactly would you like me to do, sir?’

‘L’Estrange visited me on Wednesday, and said one of his newsbook minions — a fellow called Thomas Newburne — is dead under peculiar circumstances. I would like you to look into the matter.’

Chaloner did not think that was a good idea. ‘If Newburne was working for L’Estrange, then it means he was a government employee and his death will come under Spymaster Williamson’s jurisdiction. Williamson already dislikes me, and will be angry if I interfere.’

‘I am the Lord Chancellor of England, so you will interfere if I tell you to,’ snapped Clarendon. ‘I do not care if Williamson is angry or not. Besides, I am sure he will conduct his own enquiry.’

‘Will he not share his conclusions with you?’

‘I would not trust them if he did,’ snorted the Earl. ‘The more I learn about Williamson, the less I respect his judgement. He is too devious for his own good, and I do not approve of him dismissing a respected newsman like Muddiman or the dual appointment he foisted on L’Estrange.’

‘L’Estrange could have refused one of them.’

‘You do not “refuse” Williamson! Besides, I do not think L’Estrange has very good judgement, either. I like the man, and consider him an ally, but he is not very sensible.’

Sensible men did not draw their swords as a means to resolving arguments, so Chaloner suspected the Earl was right. He considered the ‘minion’ whose death he was supposed to investigate. ‘What happened to Newburne? How did he die?’

‘He passed away at the Smithfield Market. Have you heard of it?’

‘Of course,’ replied Chaloner, startled by the question.

The Earl grimaced. ‘You have spent so much time away that you seem more foreigner than Englishman most of the time. But let us return to Smithfield. Apart from being a venue for selling livestock, especially horses, it is also an area of great vice, where criminals roam in gangs. The biggest and most powerful clan calls itself the Hectors.’

Chaloner was not sure what the Earl was trying to tell him. ‘Newburne was killed by Hectors?’

‘Actually, no — at least, I do not think so. I was just trying to give you an impression of the area in which you will be working. Newburne was not killed by louts, as far as I understand the situation. He was killed by cucumbers.’

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled in confusion. Surely it was unusual for two people to expire from ingesting cucumbers in such a short period of time — Newburne on Wednesday and Maylord two days later? Had a bad batch been hawked around London, or were Newburne and Maylord just gluttons for that particular fruit? He was careful to keep his expression neutral — no good spy ever revealed what he was thinking — as he continued to question Clarendon.

‘Have you heard of any other cases of cucumber poisoning recently, sir?’

The Earl raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘No, but we all know they should be avoided, and I cannot imagine why Newburne should have been scoffing one. They are nasty, bitter things.’

‘Have there been any other odd deaths lately, then?’ Chaloner pressed. ‘Inexplicable or-’

‘Of course there have! This is London, and people die of strange things all the time. Why are you asking such questions? It is Newburne I want you to explore, not the entire city.’

‘Because Newburne’s death may not be an isolated event, especially if L’Estrange and Muddiman are embroiled in a feud. If there have been other incidents, it would be helpful to know about them before I start investigating.’