Susanna Gregory: The Butcher Of Smithfield

Muddiman jerked into Leybourn, who promptly dropped his weapon in the water that lapped around their feet.

‘No?’ demanded the newsmonger, rashly provocative. ‘Then tell Heyden why you wanted Newburne’s death quietly forgotten. Dury was looking into the matter for me, but you warned him and Heyden to leave the matter well alone.’

‘Of course I did,’ exploded L’Estrange. ‘Newburne died of cucumbers. There was no need for an investigation, because cucumbers kill people all the time. I am a newsman, so party to this sort of information. I could name half a dozen people who have died of cucumbers this year alone.’

‘And it did not occur to you that this is odd?’ Muddiman grabbed Leybourn and cowered behind him, as L’Estrange brandished his sword and Chaloner tried to keep it from landing on someone. Leybourn was desperately scrabbling around in the water for his lost weapon, and Chaloner might have laughed at the ludicrousness of the situation, had he not been so tired or so worried about what might be happening in Smithfield.

‘Of course it is not odd. People die of peculiar things all the time. Besides, if you must know the truth, I was paying court to Dorcus Newburne when her husband breathed his last, and I knew what Dury would have made of that — he would have said it was motive for murder. Damned phanatique!’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Leybourn, as he found his blade at last. It came out of the water like Excalibur. ‘And you, Muddiman? Why did you order Tom not to investigate Newburne?’

‘Because Dury was doing it,’ replied Chaloner, when Muddiman realised he was in more danger from Leybourn’s undisciplined swipes than L’Estrange’s determined lunges. The newsman ducked and weaved, more interested in protecting himself than in answering questions. ‘And he did not want us tripping over each other in the search for clues.’

‘Let me at him,’ ordered L’Estrange, advancing purposefully on his rival. ‘I do not want to kill you, Heyden, so step aside before you are hurt. Muddiman, prepare to die! London will not mourn a phanatique of your standing.’

Muddiman shrieked as L’Estrange fought his way past Chaloner, whose attention was half on keeping Leybourn out of the fight, and he suddenly found himself exposed.

‘Stop him! I will tell you everything if you save me. Dury was investigating how messages in music helped criminals to steal horses, and Crisp slaughtered him when he came too close to the truth. He went to Hodgkinson’s print-shop in Smithfield for answers, and was strangled for his pains. A gutter was dropped on his head to conceal what really happened.’

‘The music is nothing,’ snapped L’Estrange, scowling when Chaloner grabbed his coat and spun him around, forcing him to halt his relentless advance. ‘Greeting takes the stuff to Williamson for me, because Williamson thinks it contains a code, but he is wrong. I have played it every way imaginable, and it is just music — from China, probably, which is why it is difficult for western ears to understand.’

L’Estrange was the one who was wrong, thought Chaloner, falling back quickly when the editor went on the offensive. Williamson knew exactly what the music meant. But why had the Spymaster tossed the music on the fire when Greeting had delivered it? He realised the answer was clear: Williamson had no intention of interfering with Hector business. And why? Because they obliged him with manpower when he needed something shady done.

Leybourn had been about to stab L’Estrange in the back while the editor’s attention was on Chaloner, but he lowered the weapon slowly as he considered the claims. ‘You are not Crisp, either,’ he said, sounding startled. ‘You cannot be, if you are passing the music to Williamson.’

Chaloner had had enough of dancing around with L’Estrange. He abandoned the fancy sword-play of Court and reverted to more brutal tactics — ones he had learned during the wars. In seconds, L’Estrange’s elegant weapon lay on the ground and the editor was nursing a bruised hand. Muddiman did not wait to see what else happened; he dashed to his cart, screaming at the driver to whip the horses into a gallop. Boxes dropped from the wagon as it careened away, and shadows emerged from nearby alleys to claim them.

‘How do you come by the music you send to Williamson?’ asked Chaloner, standing next to L’Estrange as they watched the newsmonger rattle away.

‘Brome keeps it hidden in Joanna’s virginals,’ replied L’Estrange sullenly, inspecting his fingers in the gathering light of dawn. ‘You must have noticed the instrument’s muted tones when we played together? Well, I looked inside it one day, and it was full of this odd music. Brome frets when a few pieces go missing occasionally, but I do not see the harm in taking a couple now and then. It pleases Williamson, and that should be reward enough.’

‘Brome,’ said Chaloner. He exchanged an appalled glance with Leybourn as the truth finally dawned. They had had the Butcher of Smithfield in their hands, and they had let him go.

‘I tried to tell you I did not trust Brome,’ said Leybourn, as they raced through the sodden streets towards Ivy Lane. ‘But you would not stop to listen, and I was overly ready to believe Muddiman was the culprit. Brome had two guns. He aimed at Hodgkinson with one, and you with the other. I saw him. Obviously, he sent us to the Turk’s Head to make us waste time.’

‘He did not make much attempt to disarm Hodgkinson, did he,’ said Chaloner, wondering why he had not seen it at the time. He supposed he was simply too tired. ‘He wanted him to shoot me.’

‘Because he could not tackle two fairly dangerous men at the same time,’ explained Leybourn. ‘If Hodgkinson had dispatched you, then he would have been left with only one. He might be the Butcher, but he does not do his own dirty work. He has Hectors for that. And Mary.’

‘He did not know Hodgkinson was Wenum, though. His surprise over that was genuine.’

‘And so was his retribution,’ said Leybourn. ‘Hodgkinson did not live long after that little secret came out, did he!’

The streets were light now, although it was a grey, sullen dawn that oppressed the spirits. People were sweeping water from their houses, and everywhere, buckets were being emptied. It was all to no avail: rain kept falling as if it intended to drown London and every living thing in it.

They reached Ivy Lane, and Chaloner skidded to a stop. He wished he was not so tired, and that he could think properly. Leybourn had not sheathed his sword; he was holding it like a battleaxe, and unless Chaloner devised some sort of strategy, his friend’s determination to avenge himself was going to cause some fatal problems.

‘We cannot just burst in,’ he said. Exhaustion slurred his words. ‘His Hectors will kill us.’

‘You have a plan?’

‘No,’ admitted Chaloner. He pointed to where Kirby was guarding the bookshop door. ‘But it looks as if Brome has already asserted control over his Hectors. Of course, they will be eager to do his bidding — I let him take Newburne’s treasure, so he has the wherewithal to pay them. I should have been suspicious when he offered to take the box to L’Estrange in the first place. He was supposed to be running for his life, and who cares about delivering stolen property under such circumstances?’

‘We must smash his vile empire,’ declared Leybourn. ‘And the only way to do that is to strike off its head. Once it is leaderless, it will founder, and hopefully Williamson will be able to crush the rest of it before someone else steps up to accept the challenge.’

‘Williamson? He is more likely to appoint a new Butcher — the Hectors are too useful to lose.’ Chaloner tried to rally his fading strength. ‘We cannot do this alone, Will. We need help.’