Susanna Gregory: The Butcher Of Smithfield

‘Unfortunately, that will not be coming. The only man I trust is Thurloe, and he is on the wrong side of a flooded river. And if you say Williamson will turn a blind eye to the Hectors, then there is no point in sending for him, either — he will probably arrange for us to die. The best option is for us to storm the bookshop and stab Brome before he realises what is happening.’

‘Kirby will shoot us long before we reach the door. How many coffee houses are there nearby?’

Leybourn gazed uncertainly at him. ‘Why?’

‘ How many ?’

Leybourn shrugged. ‘Half a dozen or more.’ He began to list them.

Chaloner shoved him towards the closest. ‘Go to the ones by St Paul’s. Say the vicar of Wollaston has complained to the government about his prayer-book being smeared with grease, so the government is giving him a solid gold lectern as compensation. It will cost a thousand pounds, and will be paid for by a tax imposed on Londoners.’

Leybourn gaped at him. ‘What for? It will cause all manner of trouble.’

‘Of course it will. And you can say a public announcement of the facts will be made from the newsbook offices within the hour. I will do the same along Cheapside. Carry your sword, and say people are massing in Ivy Lane to voice their objections.’

‘What is to stop them marching on White Hall?’ asked Leybourn uneasily.

‘A flooded river and no bridges. Hurry, or we will be too late.’

Chaloner darted towards Cheapside without waiting for an answer, praying that the coffee houses would be full of their usual early-morning patrons. People saw his drawn weapon and gave him a wide berth as he ran. He shouted that there was to be a great announcement at Ivy Lane in a few moments time, and although some folk ignored him, others started to move towards the newsbook offices.

It was easier to inflame the occupants of the coffee houses than he had anticipated, and he was startled when he reached the third one to find his tale had preceded him. Someone had run ahead, and men were streaming out of the door, heading westwards through the pouring rain. He glanced east, and saw coffee-boys racing to the next establishment and the one after that. The rumour was now well out of his control, so he turned back to Ivy Lane.

He arrived to find a crowd of about fifty people milling in the street, and more were flocking to join them with each passing moment. Kirby was declaring that there would be no announcement, and that they should go home, but Kirby was a Hector, and his very presence in such a place was unusual enough to fuel speculation. People refused to budge. Then someone threw a stone at a window, and the sound of smashing glass brought a triumphant cheer. It was time to act.

Chaloner ran around the block, and let himself in through Brome’s back door. It was locked and there was a guard, but one he picked with his customary deftness, and the other he felled with a sharp blow from Joanna’s otherwise useless pistol. He made his way along the corridor towards the bookshop. Brome was there, looking out of the window, and with him were Ireton and several Hectors. There was another cheer, and Kirby suddenly raced through the front door, slamming it behind him.

‘They are throwing rocks at me now,’ he yelled indignantly. ‘Give me a gun. There is only one way they will be driven off.’

‘Order them home,’ instructed Brome. ‘They will go if you tell them properly.’

‘I have told them properly,’ shouted Kirby, ‘but they will not listen. They are saying there is to be an announcement about some new tax. If you do not believe me, you go out and try to convince them.’

‘Someone is trying to obstruct us,’ said Ireton thoughtfully. ‘Where is Joanna? This is an important day, and I do not want her wandering about and spoiling everything.’

‘She will not spoil anything,’ said Brome icily.

Ireton raised his hands and backed down at the fierce tenor of the bookseller’s voice.

Chaloner took a deep breath, and stepped into the room. He levelled the dag at the group by the window. ‘The King’s troops will be here any moment, and you are all under arrest. Put up your weapons.’

Ireton sneered. ‘What will you do when we refuse? Shoot us all? With one gun? I would have thought you had learned that lesson already. Grab him, Kirby.’

Chaloner lobbed the dag hard enough to knock Kirby cold, then took a firmer grip on his sword. Ireton drew his own blade, while Brome hurled a dagger. It went wide, and stuck in the doorframe near Chaloner’s head.

‘You summoned that crowd,’ snarled Ireton, lunging at him. ‘You are the one trying to sabotage what we have worked for all these years.’

Chaloner jumped away from him, noting that Brome was making no further attempt to fight. Leybourn had been right: he did prefer others to do his dirty work. He stood with his arms folded and indicated with a nod of his head that his men should make an end of the spy who was such a thorn in his side. Obligingly, several Hectors closed in on Chaloner from behind, restricting the space he needed to wield his sword.

‘I should have known,’ Chaloner said to the bookseller. ‘You warned me away from “Crisp” the first time we met. You pretended to be afraid, to frighten me into abandoning my enquiries. You knew they would lead to me discovering not only the identity of Newburne’s killer, but also your plans to take control of Smithfield.’

‘And you ignored me,’ said Brome wearily. ‘I tried to keep you out of it, but you did the exact opposite of whatever I recommended. You know little that can harm us, but it is a pity you meddled.’

‘I know enough. For example, I have deduced that you killed Finch. You admitted to hating the trumpet when we played with L’Estrange, and you showed your ignorance of the instrument when you put cucumber inside it — you put the chewed piece in the wrong place. Callously, you ate a pie while you watched Finch die.’

‘I was listening to him play,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘He had acquired some of the music I send to Ireton, to say where and when to procure certain horses. I needed to know whether he had decoded the messages, but I could tell from his playing that he had not. I offered him a lozenge anyway.’

‘Yesterday, you told me the music might be code,’ said Chaloner, jerking away from a riposte from Ireton that almost removed an ear. Once again, the hat came into its own. ‘You were testing me, to see if I had worked it out, too.’

‘You were good,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘I confess I had no idea at the end of the discussion whether you had guessed our secret or not. I decided your days were numbered regardless, because loose ends can be dangerous.’

‘Was Newburne a loose end?’

‘He was cheating us, which was unacceptable. I sent him some lozenges — the same as the ones I fed to Pettis, Beauclair and anyone else who did not fall in with our plans.’ Another stone hit the window with a crack, and Chaloner could hear people yelling that they wanted the news.

‘And it was all for horses?’ he asked.

‘Horses are a lucrative business,’ replied Brome. ‘And do not think the government will stop us, because Williamson knows all about it. L’Estrange got hold of a few tunes somehow, and sent them to him. He understood their significance immediately, but he turns a blind eye.’

‘And why not?’ asked Ireton. ‘He has nothing to lose and a great deal to gain — more advertisements sold; more people wanting to buy the newsbooks for tales of lost nags; more people reading the news he decides should be released. If you think Williamson is going to put an end to that, you are a fool.’

‘Why do you think he set Hickes and Greeting to solve Newburne’s murder?’ added Brome, gloating now. ‘A half-wit and a novice, neither of whom was going to discover anything. He even sent Hickes to Finch’s room on my behalf, when I foolishly left the music behind. Of course, Hickes neglected to collect the lozenges, so I was obliged to go back myself anyway.’