The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Read online

  ‘There is a big castle in Dover,’ said Ellis, as if he imagined his tenant might not have noticed it. ‘It will be our first line of defence when the Dutch invade. I was in the Turk’s Head Coffee House last night, and it was full of talk about the great flotilla of boats the Dutch is building, ready to fight us.’

  ‘They do not need to build anything,’ said Chaloner, who had spent several years undercover in Holland. ‘They already have a great navy. And, unlike ours, it is manned by sailors who have been paid, and is equipped with ships that are actually seaworthy.’

  Ellis shook his head. ‘The government should spend more money on defending us from foreigners, and less on chasing phantom rebels in the north of England. Have you been reading the newsbooks? The new editor, Roger L’Estrange, wants us to believe that Yorkshire is trying to start another civil war. He is obsessed with men he calls “phanatiques”.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chaloner vaguely, reluctant to admit that he had not seen a newsbook – an eight-page ‘news-paper’ produced by the government for the general public – since June or that he had never heard of Roger L’Estrange. He did not want to startle Ellis into an interrogation by displaying a total ignorance of current affairs.

  ‘L’Estrange is something of a phanatique himself, if you ask me,’ Ellis went on disapprovingly. ‘Someone should tell him the newsbooks were not founded to provide him with an opportunity to rant, but to disseminate interesting information to readers. I want to know who has died, been promoted or robbed in London, not L’Estrange’s perverted opinions about Yorkshire. And as for that piece about the Swiss ambassador – well, who cares what a foreign diplomat was given to eat in France?’

  ‘True,’ said Chaloner, supposing he had better spend a few hours reading, to catch up.

  ‘I am pleased to see you home again,’ said Ellis, searching for a subject that would elicit more than monosyllabic answers. ‘You said you might be gone a month, but it was four times that, and I was beginning to think you had decided to lodge elsewhere.’

  Chaloner thought back to the blossom-scented June morning when he had received the message that ordered him to go immediately to White Hall. Such summons were not unusual from his employer, and he had not thought much about it. Like many politicians, the Earl of Clarendon – currently Lord Chancellor – had accumulated plenty of enemies during his life, and relied on his spy to provide him with information that would allow him to stay one step ahead of them. However, it had not been Clarendon who had sent for him, then dispatched him on a long and dangerous mission to the Iberian Peninsula. It had been the Queen – and no one refused the ‘request’ of a monarch, even though Chaloner had been reluctant to leave London. He smiled absently at Ellis, then made a show of listening to the sermon. Ellis sighed at his tenant’s uncommunicative manner, but did not press him further.

  When the service was over, the congregation flooded into Fleet Street and Ellis went to join cronies from his coffee-house. They immediately began a spirited debate about a newsbook editorial that described Quakers as ‘licentious and incorrigible’; some thought the epithet accurate, while others claimed they would make up their own minds and did not need L’Estrange telling them what to think. Chaloner began to walk to White Hall, aware that his Earl would want to know he was home at last. The rain had stopped, although it had left Fleet Street a soft carpet of mud, and he was astonished by the lively bustle as traders hawked their wares. There had been few secular activities allowed on the Sabbath in Catholic Spain, and the contrast was startling.

  ‘God will send a great pestilence,’ bawled a street-preacher, who evidently thought the same. He stood on a crate in the middle of the road, and risked life and limb as traffic surged around him. ‘There is plague in Venice, and He will inflict one on London unless you repent.’

  ‘He has already sent one,’ quipped a leatherworker’s apprentice, as he staggered by with a load of cured pelts balanced on his head. ‘Half the Court has French pox, so I have heard.’

  People laughed, and Chaloner was impressed when the lad managed a cheeky bow without dropping what he was carrying. The preacher scowled at him, and muttered that God would be including cocky apprentices among His list of targets when the plague arrived in the city.

  Chaloner hurried on, warned by a rank, acrid smell that he was approaching the Rainbow Coffee House, an establishment infamous for the ‘noisome stenches’ associated with its roasting beans. Suddenly, the door was flung open and a man stalked out. He was tall, lean and elegantly dressed, and a pair of outrageously large gold rings dangled from his ears. His handsome, but cruel, face was dark with fury, and he gripped the hilt of his sword as though he itched to run someone through with it. Chaloner thought he looked like a pirate – dangerous and unpredictable.

  Moments later, the Rainbow’s door opened a second time, and two more men emerged. Both were clad in the very latest Court fashions, although the spotless white lace that frothed around their knees and their clean shoes told Chaloner that they had not sloshed through Fleet Street’s mud that morning, but had travelled in style – carried in a sedan-chair or a hackney-coach. The shorter of the pair, who sported a long yellow wig, held a newsbook in his hand.

  ‘“Personal lozenges by Theophilus Buckworth for the cure of consumptions, coughs, catarrhs and strongness of breath”,’ he read in a yell that drew a good deal of attention from passers-by. ‘You call that news, L’Estrange?’

  The tall man whipped around to face him, while Chaloner noted wryly that, for all London’s vast size – it was by far the biggest city in the civilised world – it was still a small place in many ways. Ellis had mentioned a newsbook editor called L’Estrange, and suddenly, here he was. Not wanting to be caught in the middle of a spat that looked set to turn violent, Chaloner stepped into an alley, joining a soot-faced lad who was disposing of a bucket of coffee-grounds there. The youth scattered his reeking, gritty pile by kicking it, and the stench of decay told Chaloner that the lane had been used as a depository for the Rainbow’s unwanted by-products for years. The coffee-boy pulled a pipe from his pocket and watched with interest as L’Estrange strode towards his tormentor.

  ‘That particular notice had nothing to do with me,’ he snarled. ‘My assistant inserted it without my knowledge.’

  ‘I see,’ drawled the yellow-wigged man, exchanging a smirk with his dashing companion. ‘So, you admit you have no control over what is published in your newsbooks, do you? That explains a good deal – such as why they contain all manner of dross about the Swiss ambassador’s dinner in Paris, but nothing about the dealings of our own government.’

  The coffee-boy grinned conspiratorially, and nudged Chaloner with his elbow. ‘They have been at it all morning,’ he whispered.

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Squabbling. L’Estrange edits the newsbooks – although they hold little to interest the educated man, except their lists of recently stolen horses; the rest is given over to L’Estrange’s tirades against phanatiques. The fat fellow with the yellow wig is Henry Muddiman.’

  ‘Who is Muddiman?’ asked Chaloner, aware, even as he spoke, that this was a question which exposed him as an outsider. Unfortunately, it was true. His postings to spy overseas, first for Cromwell and then for the King, meant the time he had spent in London was limited to a few weeks. He was a stranger in his own land, which was sometimes a serious impediment to his work. He knew he could rectify the situation – but only if his masters would stop sending him abroad.

  ‘Muddiman was L’Estrange’s predecessor at the newsbooks,’ explained the coffee-boy, looking at him askance. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Chaloner, frowning as vague memories of the man’s name and the nature of his business began to surface. Muddiman had produced newsbooks during the Commonwealth, and the King had kept him on after the Restoration. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘Muddiman was ousted for political reasons, and the pair now hate each other with a passion. These days, Muddiman p
roduces newsletters, which are different to newsbooks, as you will know.’ The lad shot Chaloner another odd glance, not sure if he was assuming too much.

  ‘Newsbooks are printed,’ supplied Chaloner, to show he was not totally clueless. ‘Newsletters are handwritten. Printed material is subject to government censorship; handwritten material is not.’

  ‘Precisely – which means the newsletters are a lot more interesting to read. Of course, Muddiman’s epistles are expensive – more than five pounds a year! – but they contain real information for the discerning gentleman.’

  From the way he spoke, Chaloner surmised that the boy considered himself familiar with ‘real information’. He was probably right: coffee houses were hubs of news and gossip, and working in one doubtless meant the youth was one of the best informed people in the city. Chaloner edged deeper into the shadows when L’Estrange drew his sword.

  ‘L’Estrange should learn to control his temper,’ the boy went on, his tone disapproving. ‘One does not debate with weapons, not at the Rainbow. We deplore that sort of loutishness, which is why he has been asked to leave. And Muddiman should not have followed him outside, either, because now L’Estrange will try to skewer him. You just watch and see if I am right.’

  ‘You speak as much rubbish as you print,’ said Muddiman, addressing his rival disdainfully. Chaloner was not sure he would have adopted such an attitude towards a man with a drawn sword, especially one who was clearly longing to put it to use. ‘You are nothing but wind.’

  ‘You insolent—’ L’Estrange’s wild lunge was blocked by Muddiman’s companion, and their two blades slid up each other in a squeal of protesting metal. The Rainbow’s patrons had seen what was happening through the windows, and friends hurried out to separate the combatants.

  The coffee-boy tutted. ‘There is not enough room in London for two greedy, ambitious newsmongers. One of them will be dead before the year is out, you mark my words.’

  Bells were ringing all over the city, from the great bass toll of St Paul’s Cathedral to the musical jangle of St Clement Danes, as Chaloner resumed his walk to White Hall. He threaded his way through the inevitable congestion at Temple Bar – the narrow gate that divided Fleet Street from The Strand – and headed for Charing Cross. Carriages with prancing horses ferried courtiers and officials between state duties and their fine residences, although judging from the dissipated appearance of some passengers, the duties had been more closely allied to a night of debauchery than to papers and committees.

  Chaloner turned south along King Street, and entered the palace by the main gate. The porter was reading a leaflet that condemned the immoral activities that took place in and around Smithfield. However, seeing the rapt gleam in the man’s eye, Chaloner suspected the lurid descriptions of the various vices on offer would do more to encourage the fellow to visit the area than to arouse any feelings of righteous distaste. Indeed, having scanned a few of the phrases on the back, Chaloner was tempted to go himself.

  Once the porter had waved him through the gate, Chaloner’s first inclination was to hunt out Maylord. The musician’s letter had bothered him, and he wanted to know what had prompted the old man to pen such an urgent-sounding missive. But White Hall thrived on gossip, and the Earl of Clarendon would not be pleased to hear from some tattling official that his spy had finally returned home and had not made him his first port of call. So, as duty had to come before meeting old friends, Chaloner made his way to the Stone Gallery.

  The Stone Gallery was a long corridor at the heart of White Hall. Its floor comprised sandstone slabs, like a cloister, and its arched windows further enhanced its monastic ambience. Its occupants put paid to any illusion of monkish virtue, though. The room rang with coarse laughter, because someone was telling an improbably lewd tale about the Duke of Buckingham’s latest conquest. Some nobles wandered about in night-gowns and bed-caps, affecting exaggerated yawns to let everyone know they had been out carousing the night before. Others were dressed, but their clothes were so laden with ruffles, lace and pleats that even the more temperate of them looked debauched.

  Chaloner walked the length of the chamber looking for his Earl, nodding to the occasional acquaintance, but the Lord Chancellor was not among the chattering throng, so he went to his offices instead. These comprised a suite of rooms overlooking the elegantly manicured Privy Garden. In a small, windowless room that was more cupboard than chamber sat the Earl’s secretary, John Bulteel, copying figures of expenditure into a ledger. Bulteel was a timid, unhealthy-looking clerk who rarely spoke above a whisper and who always seemed on the verge of exhaustion. He smiled when he saw Chaloner, revealing brown, crooked teeth that probably gave him a lot of trouble.

  ‘The Earl is not here, Heyden,’ he said. ‘It is Sunday.’

  Thomas Heyden was Chaloner’s favourite alias, and one he always used at Court. Because his uncle had been one of the men who had signed the first King Charles’s death warrant, Chaloner was a name best kept quiet until the frenzy of hatred against the regicides had faded. ‘Is he at church, then?’ he asked. ‘Should I return tomorrow?’

  ‘No, he will certainly want to see you today. He had your letter telling him you would be home before the end of the month, and said it would not be a moment too soon. He did not expect the Queen’s business to take quite so long, and is not very pleased about it, to be frank.’

  ‘He told me to go,’ objected Chaloner. ‘I wanted to stay in London.’

  ‘I know that, but he resents the fact that you were not here when he needed you.’ Bulteel raised his hand when the spy started to protest again. ‘It is unfair, and I am not saying he is right – I am just warning you that you may face a cool reception when you meet. Do you remember where he lives? In the building called Worcester House on The Strand. You cannot miss it – it is a great Tudor monstrosity with some part that is always falling down.’

  Chaloner was startled by the elaborate description of a house he had visited dozens of times. ‘I have only been gone four months, Bulteel – not long enough to forget that sort of thing.’

  Bulteel gave his wan, unhappy smile. ‘It feels more like four years, but then time passes so slowly here, especially when His Lordship is suffering from the gout. It makes him terribly irritable.’

  Grimly, Chaloner recalled that gout made the Lord Chancellor a lot more than just ‘irritable’. ‘He has been venting his temper on you, has he? Because he is unwell?’

  Bulteel winced. ‘His ailment has not plagued him as badly as it did in the winter, but his temper has not improved, even so. Watch what you say, and try not to be insolent if you can help it. You have a cynical tongue, and he is less inclined to overlook that sort of thing when his legs are hurting.’

  As Chaloner turned to leave, the glitter of gold caught his eye; something had fallen between the wall and the table. When he bent to retrieve it, he found himself holding an elaborate pendant, which was studded with jewels that were probably rubies. He handed it to the clerk.

  ‘I imagine someone will be missing this. Is it yours?’

  Bulteel gazed at it in astonishment. ‘It is Lady Clarendon’s love locket! She lost it last week, and the Earl and I spent hours hunting for it. Eventually, he decided it must have been stolen. Well, actually, he thought I had taken it, if you want the truth. They will both be pleased to see it safe.’

  ‘The Earl will owe you an apology when you give it back, then.’

  Bulteel regarded it wistfully. ‘I doubt he will bother. But you found it, so you should be the one to take the credit for its discovery. It will earn you his good graces.’

  ‘Do you think I need his good graces?’ asked Chaloner, shaking his head when the secretary attempted to pass the bauble back again. He did not want to walk out of White Hall with a valuable piece of jewellery; it was the sort of thing that landed men in trouble.

  Bulteel smiled sadly. ‘We all do. This is White Hall, after all.’

  Chaloner was crossing the expanse of open space ca
lled the Palace Court, intending to visit Worcester House straight away, when he saw a man called Thomas Greeting, who basked in the lofty title of Musician in Ordinary to the King’s Private Music. Greeting was a handsome, grey-haired fellow in his forties, whose splendid attire and confident swagger made him more courtier than entertainer. He was in great demand as tutor to the wealthy, because he specialised in teaching the flageolet, which was an easy instrument to master. He was ambitious, greedy and Chaloner considered him deceitful.

  ‘Heyden,’ said Greeting pleasantly. ‘What news?’

  ‘What news?’ was the accepted salute for anyone entering a coffee-house, and Chaloner supposed the musician was showing himself to be a man of culture by using it. He did notice, however, that Greeting’s clothes were showing signs of wear up close, and that his elegant shoes needed re-heeling.

  ‘I hear Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges are good for ensuring sweetness of the breath,’ he replied flippantly, thinking about the altercation outside the Rainbow Coffee House.

  Greeting raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been reading the newsbooks, have you? It is scandalous that L’Estrange is allowed to fill them with rubbish such as that – men do spend hard-earned cash on the things, after all. Not me, of course. I cannot afford such luxuries, not on the salary White Hall pays me. I am all but destitute, if you want the truth.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Chaloner knew how he felt – his own worldly wealth at that moment comprised sixpence. He only hoped the clerks at the Accompting House – who did not work on Sundays – would not be difficult when he went to claim his back-pay the following morning.

  ‘I live in constant fear of arrest for debt,’ Greeting went on bitterly. ‘And I have been forced to move from my lovely house near Lambeth Palace to a hovel in Smithfield. Still, such is the lot of a lowly Court musician.’