Susanna Gregory - The Butcher Of Smithfield

Leybourn tried to stop him. ‘He will not be there. He will be at his Smithfield shop, which lies at the heart of the domain over which he is about to assume control.’

‘I am sure of it — especially as the Thames is on the verge of flooding again, and only a fool will want to be near the river when that happens.’

‘Then why are you going the wrong way?’

‘We need solid evidence to convict him, but all we have is supposition and theory. It is a good time to search his main lair. So I will look, while you keep watch and make sure he does not catch us.’

‘All right,’ agreed Leybourn, albeit sulkily. ‘But if he appears, I will fight him.’

Thames Street was now more the domain of its namesake than of the land, and Chaloner and Leybourn ploughed through water that was well past their knees. A candlelit boat rocked its way up the black waters in the opposite direction, and Chaloner did not like the way familiar sights were being turned on their heads by the deluge.

‘Perhaps I should find a second cat,’ grumbled Leybourn as they paddled towards the dark mass of Baynard’s Castle. ‘Then we would have two, and I could pretend to be Noah.’

They reached the print-house, which looked dark and forbidding amid the flood waters.

‘Stand in that doorway and keep a tight hold of my cat,’ ordered Chaloner, prepared to resort to devious means to keep Leybourn’s hands occupied. ‘If anyone comes, whistle. No fighting — you may tackle the wrong person, and we have to be sure before we attack.’

Leybourn stepped into the alcove Chaloner indicated. ‘Go on, then. And when you are finished, we will go to Smithfield, and assault this den of thieves — like crusading knights against the infidel.’

Chaloner had a vague memory that most of the crusades had ended in disaster, and hoped Leybourn’s words would not prove to be prophetic. He picked the print-house lock and stepped inside. The basement was a black, deserted cavern full of peculiar groaning creaks, as if water had seeped into its very foundations and rendered them unstable. Sloshing sounds indicated the Thames was already bubbling into it. He lit a lamp and saw the great presses standing in a lake of dirty water that rippled softly in the waves made by his feet. Bales of paper had been suspended from the ceiling in rope nets, and all written records had been removed, to save them from the impending flood. Chaloner was about to leave empty-handed, when he saw something had been left on the press nearest the door. It was the little box containing Newburne’s jewels, apparently abandoned.

The spy stood still and listened hard, but the only sounds were those of water. A rat swam across the room, heading for the door, leaving a v-shaped trail of ripples in its wake. Chaloner opened the box, expecting to find it empty because the locks had been smashed. Therefore, he was astonished to see the gems still glittering within it.

‘Step away and put your hands in the air,’ ordered Hodgkinson, emerging from behind the largest of his presses. He held a gun in his right hand, which he was shielding from the wet with his left. Chaloner did as he was told, hoping Leybourn would not hear their voices and come to investigate.

‘What are you doing with Newburne’s hoard?’ he demanded. He was not really in a position to interrogate the printer, given that he was not the one holding the dag, but the box was the last thing he had expected to find in the print-house and he was hopelessly confused. ‘And what are you doing here?’

‘Where else would I be?’ snapped Hodgkinson. ‘I had a feeling villains would come to see what they could steal while my premises were underwater.’

‘I am not here to steal,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Unlike you, it seems. I repeat: how did you come by Newburne’s treasure?’

Hodgkinson kept the gun trained on Chaloner’s chest. His face was shadowed, and the spy could not see it well enough to read its expression. ‘I knew where he hid it — I saw it once, when I visited his house. And I also knew someone recently dug it up to look at it. So, I retrieved it and brought it here. I should have guessed you were the one who tampered with it when L’Estrange told me about your strange behaviour in Dorcus’s garden. He did not understand it at all, but now I do.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

‘It is really very simple: you are Newburne’s killer. You have been pretending to investigate, but all the time you are the guilty party. I am shocked, because I thought you were honest. You gave me back my silver pen, but you are a thief and a killer.’

Chaloner’s mystification increased. ‘What?’

Hodgkinson sighed impatiently. ‘Everyone knows about Newburne’s treasure, and it is obvious that someone murdered him in order to steal it — to visit all his houses and search them one by one.’

‘But I was not even in the country when he died. I was on a ship, travelling home from Portugal.’

‘I do not believe you. As soon as L’Estrange mentioned your peculiar conduct in the garden, I went straight to the cellar and saw how someone had dragged a barrel over the place where the gems were hidden. The culprit — you — knew exactly where to look.’

‘Yes, I did. However, I think Crisp killed Newburne, although the original Crisp has just been dispatched in an explosion. Whoever steps forward to claim his kingdom will be the real villain.’ Chaloner shrugged. ‘I assumed it was you.’

‘Me?’ Hodgkinson was indignant. ‘How dare you!’

‘Do not believe him, Hodgkinson,’ came a voice from the shadows. Chaloner had sensed another person hiding there, but was shocked — and dismayed — to see Brome emerge. The bookseller also held a gun, although his hand shook and he looked acutely uncomfortable. He had, however, a far better weapon than the one Joanna had lent Chaloner. ‘He is lying.’

Chaloner tried to reason with him, his thoughts tumbling chaotically as he struggled for answers. ‘Please put the gun down, Brome. You know I am no danger to you — we resolved that last night.’

‘That was before I learned you went after the jewels,’ said Brome unsteadily. ‘Hodgkinson was right.’

‘There are serious flaws in his logic,’ said Chaloner to Brome, trying not to sound desperate. While he wasted time trying to convince them of his innocence, the Butcher was stepping ever closer to his new throne. He saw now that Hodgkinson was not the culprit, because he would not have spent half the night loitering in his flooded basement if he were — he would have had more important matters to attend. ‘There is no reason to assume that whoever killed Newburne also knew where he kept his treasure.’

Hodgkinson sneered. ‘He is trying to confuse us, to worm his way out of my trap. If he had eaten that cake I sent him-’

‘ You tried to poison me?’ exclaimed Chaloner. ‘Did you send Hickes the exploding oil, too?’

Brome glanced uneasily at the printer. ‘What is he talking about?’

Hodgkinson started to deny the accusation, but then shrugged, exasperated. ‘Heyden keeps asking us awkward questions. He always seems hungry, so I sent him something to keep him quiet.’

Brome’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘But it is his duty to ask questions! We have nothing to hide — not now he knows about my pamphlet. He can ask whatever he likes, as far as I am concerned.’

‘And the oil?’ asked Chaloner.

Hodgkinson shook his head firmly. ‘I know nothing about any oil, and why would I want to harm Hickes? Muddiman said he had him under control.’

‘Did you hear that?’ said Chaloner to Brome. ‘Why would Muddiman make such a comment to Hodgkinson, unless they were in league together? It is revealing, and should tell you how Muddiman lays hold of L’Estrange’s news — or some of it, at least. Do you remember the ledger I showed you, which contained details of sales written by one Wenum? Well, Wenum is Hodgkinson.’