The Butcher of Smithfield (45 page)

‘It is just the rain,’ said Hickes, going to stand by the window, still cradling the cat. ‘It is doing all manner of harm,
but when the ground dries, these old buildings will shore themselves up.’

Chaloner suspected the weather was going to bear the blame for a great many future evils, whether it was guilty or not. He
closed the door and went to kneel by the fire. Hickes came to squat next to him, stretching his hands towards the flames.
The cat squirmed in a way that said it wanted a lap, so Hickes obligingly arranged himself for its comfort. Chaloner supposed
the man would not place himself in such an indefensible position if he intended to launch an attack, and allowed himself to
relax his guard a little more.

‘I brought some oil for your lamp,’ said Hickes, producing a flask with a genial smile. ‘You so seldom light it, that it is
difficult to tell if you are in or not. Shall I fill it for you?’

‘Thank you, but there is enough light from the fire. So, you have been watching me, have you? Dury has, too. Did you work
together? I cannot see Williamson being pleased with that arrangement.’

Hickes was shocked by the suggestion. ‘We most certainly did not! I work alone. It is better that way, because then I do not
need to worry about who can be trusted.’

Chaloner could not argue with that premise.

‘I do not like L’Estrange,’ said Hickes, somewhat out of the blue. ‘He asked my wife to proof-read his newsbooks, but she
can barely write her name, so I cannot imagine what use she is to him. She still helps him twice a week, though.’

Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘He seems to employ a lot of women.’

Hickes was shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe you thought I was working with Muddiman and Dury! They did offer me a bribe
to leave them alone, but these things get back to Williamson, and I have no wish to die. You know what he is like when crossed
– dangerous, vindictive and persistent.’

‘So I have been told. Do you spy on anyone other than Muddiman and Dury? L’Estrange, for example, perhaps by paying one of
his colleagues for information?’

Hickes looked like a deer caught in a bright light. ‘No,’ he blurted, in a way that made it clear the answer was yes. ‘And
I do not want to talk about L’Estrange. As I said, I cannot abide the man.’

Chaloner shrugged. The clumsy denial was an answer in itself. Clearly, Williamson did not trust L’Estrange, either, and Brome
was being paid to monitor him. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, thinking that all the intrigue and scandal in the foreign
courts he had visited had nothing on London.

‘That smells good,’ said Hickes, indicating the cooking pot with a flick of his thumb. ‘What is it?’

‘Rat stew. Would you like some?’

Hickes laughed; he thought Chaloner was joking. ‘If you have enough.’

It felt almost companionable, eating with someone by the fire while the weather raged outside. The stew tasted
better than Chaloner remembered, and he supposed the spices made the difference. When they had finished, Hickes pulled a pipe
from his pocket and began to tamp it with tobacco. Chaloner fetched his viol, feeling like music now he was full. Hickes grimaced
in disapproval when he began to play, but listened quietly, cat in his lap, and it was some time before he spoke.

‘Did you know Dury is dead?’ he asked.

Chaloner nodded. ‘Killed by guttering.’

Hickes seemed about to spit in disgust, but remembered where he was and settled for making a hawking sound instead. ‘He took
a blow to the head, but I saw his neck before they took the body to the church. His collar had been arranged just so, but
I
noticed the bruises at the sides of his neck. Someone took his throat in their hands and squeezed. Would you like me to demonstrate?’

‘No, thank you.’ Chaloner was surprised – yet again – that Hickes had thought to look beyond the obvious, especially as it
had not occurred to him to do so. He stopped playing, better to concentrate, because he was disgusted with himself for his
negligence. ‘Why did you inspect the body?’

‘Because he died on my watch. Williamson thinks I was careless, and has ordered me to find out what happened – although it
is unfair of him to expect me to watch Dury and Muddiman at the same time. So, I looked at the body, although I cannot imagine
how I will prove whether L’Estrange or Hodgkinson is the guilty party.’

‘What makes you think it is either of them?’

‘Because they are the ones with motives. L’Estrange wants to get back at Muddiman for being a better newsman. And Hodgkinson
is a printer, so hates men who
handwrite
their news. It is obvious.’

It was not obvious at all, and Chaloner thought Hickes was an odd man – thorough and dogged on one hand, but apt to draw false
conclusions on the other. ‘L’Estrange and Hodgkinson were doing business with Brome and Joanna when Dury died. Thus they have
alibis in each other, although that does not mean they did not hire someone to do their dirty work. Is this why you came to
see me? To tell me your suspicions about Dury’s death?’

Hickes looked sheepish. ‘Actually, I came to give you this. It is the music I found in Finch’s room. You asked whether I had
collected any documents. Well, this was all I could find. By the time I managed to return for a more thorough search, everything
else had been removed.’

Chaloner took the proffered sheet. It was, without question, the same kind of music that had been in Maylord’s chimney, and
that L’Estrange had asked him and the Bromes to play. He kept his expression carefully neutral. ‘Did you know Muddiman and
Dury followed you to Finch’s house the first time you went there?’

Hickes gaped at him. ‘They never did! I would have noticed – I am a professional spy.’

‘Right.’ Chaloner held up the piece of paper. ‘Why do you think I should want this?’

Hickes shrugged, and looked more uncomfortable than ever. ‘It is a sort of peace-offering – like the oil. I am confused and
worried, and no longer know who to trust. I think Dury’s killer might be after me now.’ He showed Chaloner a small box with
a label declaring the contents to be Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges. Inside were several green tablets.

‘I hope you do not expect me to eat one of these.’

‘Of course not – they are an example of the poisonous
pills I was telling you about last time. They were sent to me today, along with a note saying they ward off chills in men
who stand around in the rain a lot. My wife encouraged me to swallow a couple, because my chest has been bothering me.’

‘But you know better than to consume gifts from anonymous donors,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether Mrs Hickes was aiming
to clear the field so she could pursue L’Estrange unfettered.

‘Hodgkinson is missing,’ said Hickes, while Chaloner was still mulling over the implications of the pills. ‘He disappeared
not long after Dury was killed. Do you not think that is suspicious?’

‘No, because he summoned the constables.’ Chaloner ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him the printer might only
have sent for them because he had been caught with a body, and that to do otherwise
would
have looked suspect. He continued less certainly. ‘And how do you know he is missing? Perhaps he went with the constables
to make an official report, or has gone to stay with friends because his properties are flooded. You are not “missing” after
such a short period of time.’

‘When I found him gone, I searched his Duck Lane print-house,’ said Hickes. He handed Chaloner another piece of paper with
music on it. ‘I found this. Will you play it?’

Chaloner started to oblige, but Hickes soon held up his hand for silence.

‘I thought so,’ said Williamson’s man disapprovingly. ‘It is that nasty, disjointed stuff that Finch said he found in Newburne’s
room. He played it for me on his trumpet.’

Chaloner compared the two pieces. ‘They are almost certainly by the same composer.’

‘Hodgkinson is a dangerous, devious fellow,’ Hickes continued. ‘And I must speak to him about Dury as soon as possible. Do
you have any idea where he might have gone?’

Chaloner did not think the printer was missing, devious or dangerous, and Hickes’s conclusions said his judgement could not
be trusted. ‘No, but I will tell you if I find out.’

‘You should, because you may need
my
help soon. First, a lot of very unpleasant men are after you, and you need friends. And second, your friend Leybourn is keeping
bad company.’

‘Mary Cade,’ said Chaloner unhappily.

‘Annie Petwer, Annabel Reade, Mary Cade. Call her what you like. Her real name is Anne Pettis.’

‘Pettis? But that is the name of the horse-trader who died of cucumbers.’

‘He was her first husband. However, if he died a natural death, I will dance naked in St Paul’s Cathedral. She killed him
– I would stake my life on it.’

Chaloner regarded him in alarm. ‘You said you found some of these green lozenges on Pettis’s body. If Mary killed Pettis,
then it means she must have dispatched Newburne, Finch, Beauclair and all the others, too. And she is in Will’s house.’

‘She will not kill him tonight – not the same day he changed his will. He is safe for a while yet.’

Recalling how eagerly Mary – he could not think of her as Anne – had encouraged Leybourn to fight with L’Estrange, Chaloner
was not so sure. ‘How do you know so much about her?’

‘Williamson sends me to watch various Hectors sometimes. I knew it would not be long before she found
another victim. Bridges managed to extricate himself, although it was expensive, but the fellow between him and Pettis ended
up floating in the Thames. His name was Nobert Wenum.’

‘Wenum?’ echoed Chaloner, bewildered. ‘But he was Newburne.’

Hickes gazed back, nonplussed. ‘He was not! He was a totally different man, I followed him several times after he met Muddiman,
and he was not Newburne. I am totally certain of it. I can see why Muddiman might have thought so, but he is wrong.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not seeing at all.

Chaloner waited a few minutes after Hickes had gone, then left via the back door. He sent a message to Thurloe about Wenum,
then trudged through the deserted streets towards Smithfield. He wore an oiled cloak against the foul weather, and Isabella’s
hat against attack. He did not think anyone would be following him, but he was cautious by nature, and took a circuitous route
across the city, using alleys that would have been dark during the day, but that were pitch black at night. He crossed the
River Fleet farther north than usual. It was a vicious torrent, and the bridge creaked as he used it, low and deep. He suspected
it would be washed away by morning.

When he reached Smithfield, he headed for the Bear alehouse, making the assumption that it was one of Kirby’s regular haunts.
He took up station behind a water-butt, but did not have long to wait, because it was already late and even Hectors needed
to sleep. First out was big-nosed Ireton, who emerged to saunter fearlessly up Long Lane. Chaloner had intended to waylay
Kirby, but decided Ireton would do just as well. He trailed the
felon to a pleasant little cottage, and watched him unlock the door. He waited until the lamp was doused in the upper chamber,
then let himself in. He saw a lute on the table downstairs, which served to confirm some of the conclusions he had drawn.

Ireton was fast asleep when Chaloner stepped into the bedchamber, but woke fast when a knife was pressed against his throat.
He opened his mouth to yell for help, but closed it sharply as the blade begin to bite. He lay still, and waited to hear what
his assailant wanted of him.

‘Maylord,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Oh, it is you,’ said Ireton, immediately recognising the voice. He sneered, confidence returning now he was facing an opponent
he knew. ‘Mary Cade told me about you, but I am confused. Who
do
you work for? It is not Williamson, and I doubt the Lord Chancellor would dare send a man against the Hectors. He, like most
sensible politicians, treats us with respect.’

‘If you tell me the truth, you will live to see tomorrow. If you lie, I will cut your throat and drop your body in the Fleet.
So, I repeat: what happened to Maylord?’

There was something in Chaloner’s low, purposeful tone that convinced Ireton he meant business. ‘Maylord?’ The Hector realised
his voice was a bleat, and struggled to compose himself.

Chaloner began to test the theory he had so painstakingly deduced. ‘You killed him on Smegergill’s orders. You smothered him
with a cushion – using enough force to break teeth – and left the cucumber to cause confusion. Did Smegergill tell you to
do that?’

‘A confession will see me hang,’ said Ireton slyly. ‘But if I keep quiet, you can prove nothing.’

It was answer enough for Chaloner, and he itched to
punch the man – or shove a pillow over
his
face. ‘Smegergill was teaching you the lute – Greeting said he had taken on some dubious pupils.’

‘Am I more dubious than a man who breaks into houses and threatens their occupants with knives?’

Chaloner ignored him. ‘You talked a lot during your sessions together. He told you how Newburne’s dishonesty was depriving
Maylord of the profits from his costermongery. Perhaps it was you who suggested something should be done about it. Regardless,
Smegergill encouraged Maylord to watch Newburne, and possibly convinced him to poke about in Newburne’s house.’

Ireton’s voice dripped contempt. ‘Prove it.’

‘The proof lies in the fact that Maylord suddenly elected to give Newburne – a man he despised – lessons on the flageolet;
it is clear there was a reason for his abrupt acquiescence. Both owned houses on Thames Street, and I imagine the lessons
took place there. During one of these tutorials, something happened to unnerve Maylord, so Smegergill helped him move to a
different part of the city. Smegergill said he did not know where Maylord had gone, but he was lying.’

Ireton regarded Chaloner with contempt, but the temptation to gloat was stronger than his desire to say nothing that would
help the spy unravel the mystery. ‘Of course, he was lying! He knew where Maylord went, although he could not find where he
hid his valuables. Maylord kept that from him.’