Susanna Gregory - The Butcher Of Smithfield

‘What next?’

‘The graveyard ambush was a mess, and Kirby and Treen have loose tongues. He was worried about what people would think when you were bludgeoned to death, but he escaped unscathed.’

‘So he asked you to hit him, to make it look as if we were both victims?’

Ireton pointed to his mouth. ‘I tapped him softly here. I saw him walk towards you after I struck him, ready to raise the alarm once we were safely away. He tripped over you — you must have felt it.’

Chaloner recalled being kicked in the side, and slowly he began to understand what had happened. Dizzy from Ireton’s blow, Smegergill had stumbled in the dark and landed face-down on the flooded ground. And that had been that. Stunned, he had been unable to rise, and by the time Chaloner had regained his own senses, Smegergill had drowned. And yet it was hard to feel sorry for the old man. He had betrayed his friendship with Maylord by arranging his murder. He fraternised with Hectors, and put his future comforts above all else. In all, Smegergill had been a selfish, odious man, and Chaloner knew he should stop feeling guilty about his death.

There was no more to be said, and the spy was just considering the best way to deliver Ireton to the constables, when he heard a creak on the stairs. Someone was coming.

Ireton smirked. ‘Nothing happens in Smithfield without the Hectors knowing. Here is my rescue.’

Swearing under his breath, Chaloner knocked Ireton out cold with the hilt of his dagger and made for the window. He clambered on to the sill just as the door flew open and Kirby and Treen stood there, swords at the ready. More Hectors were hurrying up the stairs behind them. Chaloner dropped out of the window, rolling as he landed in an attempt to lessen the impact. He staggered to his feet and saw a carriage rattling towards him. Certain it was the Butcher, he jigged away, colliding with Kirby, who had followed him out of the window. The felon grabbed him by the throat, so Chaloner felled him with a punch that hurt his own hand.

‘Thomas!’ hissed a familiar voice as the coach’s door swung open. Chaloner dived through it, and Thurloe banged on the ceiling with the butt of his handgun. ‘Go!’

‘What are you doing here?’ gasped Chaloner, struggling to hang on as the vehicle lurched away.

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘The same as you, I imagine. Trying to find a way to prise Mary away from William before she slits his throat.’

Thurloe said it was not safe for Chaloner to sleep at Fetter Lane that night, but agreed to let him collect the music, keys and Wenum’s ledger before going to Lincoln’s Inn. While the ex-Spymaster waited in the carriage, Chaloner ascended the stairs to his room.

The fire he had lit earlier was out, and he could no longer see. Then he remembered Hickes’s gift of oil. He groped in the darkness for fuel, lamp and tinderbox, and was about to fill the lantern’s reservoir, when he detected a faint odour that should not have been there. He stoppered the flask in alarm. It did contain oil, but there was also a sulphuric scent, and there would be an explosion if he tried to light it. It might not kill him, but it would certainly cause him injury. Who would do such a thing? Wryly, he acknowledged that there was a whole host of people who wanted him indisposed.

His first thought was that Hickes was responsible, but then he recalled how Hickes had offered to light the lamp for him. Did that mean Hickes had not known what would happen once a flame was set to the substance? The more he considered Hickes, the more he became sure he was the innocent instrument of someone else’s plot. But which one of Chaloner’s many enemies was to blame? Crisp? Muddiman? Williamson? L’Estrange? Mary? A Hector? Or was it Greeting, a man of whom he was becoming increasingly wary?

Quickly, he gathered what he wanted and left, first making sure the window was ajar for the cat — it was off hunting, and he did not want it to find itself locked out when it returned. As the carriage rattled to Lincoln’s Inn, he told Thurloe what he had deduced regarding Smegergill. The ex-Spymaster sighed.

‘I am not surprised to learn he would kill a friend to secure himself a comfortable retirement. What was the alternative? Teaching men like Ireton until he died? Performing for critical patrons like L’Estrange while his hands became ever more crabbed? But you have done enough on that case. I will arrange for the parish constables to arrest Ireton in the morning, assuming he has not fled the city.’

‘Will they do it? They are not too frightened of Crisp?’

Thurloe rubbed his chin. ‘True. Perhaps I had better visit the Lord Chancellor instead, and arrange for a contingent of soldiers to do it. It is a pity your reckless enquiries have not provided you with answers about Newburne, though. How much longer do you have?’

‘Until Monday — the day after tomorrow. All I learned tonight was that Newburne probably cheated Maylord out of a fortune. No wonder he was rich.’

‘And you think it was Smegergill’s plan to defraud Newburne of his jewels that turned Maylord so anxious in the last two weeks of his life?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘He had his revenge, though. He hid his key, and Smegergill never did find it.’

Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘And yet there is something about this explanation that does not ring true. I think Ireton may have been lying to you — at least in part. I do not doubt that having your dagger at his throat rendered him more willing to confide, but can you trust what he told you?’

‘Which parts do you not believe?’

‘The business with the key, mostly. I do not see Maylord being so single-mindedly venal over a box of jewels, and originally, Smegergill did say he wanted you to locate documents.’

‘But the “documents” were only that strange music,’ said Chaloner. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Or, more likely, I found the wrong hiding place.’

‘I doubt you made such a basic mistake — you were trained by me , after all. You say this music has been cropping up in all sorts of odd places, so perhaps we should consider it more carefully.’

Chaloner tried, but answers still eluded him.

Thurloe sighed. ‘Then let us go back to Maylord, and what might have frightened him. I do not think he would have gone to pieces over the notion of defrauding Newburne of jewels — he was stronger than that. I think something else was responsible for his agitation.’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner, wracking his brains.

‘Hodgkinson’s print-house is near Maylord’s cottage. The news business is a dangerous one, and it would not surprise me to learn that Hodgkinson is engaged in something illegal. And now Hickes says he is missing. Perhaps Maylord’s unease had nothing to do with Newburne, but a lot to do with another neighbour.’

‘It is possible, I suppose. After all, Hodgkinson prints items for L’Estrange and Muddiman. And Dury was murdered on his premises.’ But that solution raised its own set of questions, and Chaloner could not see the answers to save his life. He rubbed his eyes again, defeated. ‘What did you learn this evening?’

‘That Mary Cade is the widow of a Smithfield horse-trader, who also happened to know Crisp-’

‘Valentine Pettis.’

Thurloe regarded him balefully. ‘You have been busy. When I was Spymaster, the Hectors were just a band of brutish felons whom we periodically crushed. Now they are a highly organised clan, and some are even intelligent. Williamson turns a blind eye to their dealings on the understanding that they will supply appropriate manpower when he needs something done.’

Chaloner’s unease intensified. ‘What are we going to do about Will? We cannot leave him in that woman’s clutches. We may arrive tomorrow and find it is too late.’