Susanna Gregory - The Butcher Of Smithfield

‘Lies!’ spat Hodgkinson. ‘It was Newburne. Tom Newburne and Nobert Wenum are the same name — the same letters arranged in a different order.’

‘You made a mistake,’ Chaloner went on. ‘You wanted to read about cucumbers so you bought a book by Galen. It was in “Wenum’s” room in the Rhenish Wine House. Unfortunately, Wenum did not buy the book: you did. Nott told me.’

‘Hearsay,’ snapped Hodgkinson. ‘And I-’

‘Wenum’s neighbour talked about his scarred jaw,’ Chaloner continued, ‘but Newburne’s face was unblemished. Remove your false beard, Hodgkinson, and show Brome what lies beneath.’

Furious, Hodgkinson pulled the trigger. Chaloner ducked instinctively, but there was a resounding click and no more — the powder was damp. Taking advantage of the printer’s brief moment of surprise, Chaloner made a grab for his beard, while at the same time trying to prevent him from hauling a second dag from his belt. The hair came off in the spy’s hand, but Hodgkinson managed to draw his weapon.

‘Stop!’ yelled Brome, brandishing his own gun wildly. ‘Stand away from each other. At once!’

Chaloner complied, afraid the bookseller might shoot him just because he was agitated and afraid. Meanwhile, Hodgkinson’s free hand was pressed to his ravaged face. His expression was murderous, and Chaloner braced himself, sure the man was going to kill him where he stood. But the printer lowered the weapon.

‘No.’ His voice shook with rage, but he was holding himself in control. ‘I want answers before you die. How did you know about my skin?’

Brome gaped in shock: Hodgkinson’s response was a clear admission of guilt.

‘Because you wore a darker beard to Newburne’s funeral,’ explained Chaloner. ‘I assumed you had blackened the real one as part of your funeral attire, but you had actually donned a completely different hairpiece. I was a fool not to have understood its significance straight away.’

‘ You are Wenum?’ asked Brome unsteadily. ‘ You have been betraying us?’

His accusatory tone drove Hodgkinson to greater anger. The gun came up, and Chaloner hurled himself behind one of the presses.

‘All right,’ snarled the printer, moving to get a clear shot. ‘I am Wenum, although I constructed my character in a way that meant Newburne would be blamed. I even kept a few law books in the Rhenish Wine House, should anyone ever search it. And why not? He was corrupt, anyway.’

Desperately, Chaloner tried to make Brome see who was the enemy. ‘It meant that when Newburne died, “Wenum” had to disappear, too. Hodgkinson was forced to abandon the Rhenish Wine House and spin a tale about Wenum throwing himself in the river. To confuse matters further, he started a rumour that Wenum was a victim of Mary Cade.’

Hodgkinson sneered, crouching with the firearm clutched in both hands as he pointed it towards where he thought Chaloner was hiding. ‘What choice did I have? Men like you were prying into affairs that were none of their concern, spoiling everything.’

‘Hickes believed your tales, and so did Spymaster Williamson, which is why they never looked very closely at Wenum — a man they believe to be dead.’

‘Put down the gun, Hodgkinson,’ said Brome quietly. ‘Selling L’Estrange’s news to Muddiman was dishonest and stupid, but when we explain-’

‘No,’ grated Hodgkinson. ‘L’Estrange will not appreciate that printing is a hard business and that profits must be made where they can. He will accuse me of being a phanatique.’

Brome’s mouth snapped shut, telling the printer he was right. Chaloner rolled his eyes, wishing Brome was endowed with a little more strength of character. Hodgkinson’s guilt had been irrefutably exposed, but Brome still hoped for a happy ending.

‘What do you intend to do with Newburne’s hoard?’ Chaloner asked, dodging to one side when Hodgkinson took aim again. ‘Share it between you?’

‘Of course not!’ cried Brome, shocked. ‘Hodgkinson brought it here for safekeeping, and we intend to see it returned to its rightful owners — the people Newburne defrauded. I cannot imagine how we will locate them all, but we shall do our best.’

Chaloner suspected Hodgkinson had a different plan in mind, and he saw neither he nor Brome were going to be allowed to leave Thames Street alive. The printer’s crimes were simply too great to allow witnesses to live.

‘Stop!’

A dark shadow streaked from Leybourn’s arms as he struggled to draw his sword. There was a deafening bang, and something grazed Chaloner’s hat as he threw himself to the floor. He said yet another silent prayer of thanks for Isabella’s gift. A second boom followed the first. Water surged into his ears, and spray was everywhere. Then all was silent.

* * *

Cautiously, Chaloner clambered to his feet and saw Hodgkinson floating face-down and unmoving in the water. Brome stood with his gun dangling from his fingers, while Leybourn, alarmed by the sudden discharge of deadly weapons, had raced back outside, and was taking shelter in the street.

‘What have I done?’ whispered Brome, appalled. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’

Chaloner spat foul water from his mouth. ‘It was not your fault. Hodgkinson-’

But Brome was full of anguish. ‘It was my fault! I took his life with this …’ Repelled, he flung the dag away from him, and stood wiping his hand on his coat, as if trying to clean it. When he next spoke, his voice was flat and expressionless. ‘I will take Newburne’s jewels to L’Estrange and ask him to return them to their rightful owners. Catching whoever tried to steal them from his cellar seems unimportant now. Why did you come here, if it was not for the treasure?’

‘To find evidence of Hodgkinson’s guilt.’ Chaloner did not explain that he had had the printer in his sights as the Butcher of Smithfield. ‘Why take the jewels to L’Estrange? You of all people know he is not always honest.’

Brome shrugged. ‘He is my master, and ethical in his own way. If I ask him to track down the victims of Newburne the phanatique, he will do it with all the fervour of an avenging angel. He is the best man for the task, other than perhaps your Earl. Unfortunately, though, Clarendon is on the other side of a flooded river.’

Chaloner gestured around the dark print-house. ‘Why did you come here tonight?’

‘Because Hodgkinson sent for me, and he was my friend.’ Brome’s voice trembled as he looked at the printer’s body. ‘I see I was wrong, and his betrayal emphasises the fact that I have no place here in London.’

‘You intend to run?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘Don’t. It will look as though-’

‘I do not care what it looks like,’ said Brome in the same numb tone. ‘The situation has escalated out of control, and a prudent disappearance is the only option open to me. Will you give me a hour’s grace, for friendship’s sake? To collect Joanna and flee this horrible city? If you do not trust me to give the jewels to L’Estrange, then take them yourself.’

Chaloner declined to accept the proffered box. ‘I must go to Smithfield before the Butcher — whoever he is — assumes power. I cannot waste time with treasure.’

‘It is reckless and stupid to go to Smithfield without knowing the identity of the man you think is responsible for so much evil,’ said Brome, seeming to come out of his daze a little. ‘You need more information. Talk to Muddiman. He knows more about London than anyone else, and might be willing to help you prevent a catastrophe.’

‘All the way back to The Strand?’ Brome’s suggestion made sense, but it would take far too long.

‘The bridges are closed, so he cannot have gone home. Try his favourite coffee house — the Turk’s Head at St Paul’s. And while you are there, ask him about this exploding oil, too. He bought a pamphlet from me on the subject just last week.’