Susanna Gregory
The Butcher Of Smithfield
Prologue
Smithfield Meat Market, October 1663
The solicitor Thomas Newburne knew he was not a popular man, but he did not care. Why should he, when he had everything he wanted — a lovely mansion on Old Jewry, a pleasant cottage on Thames Street, cellars stuffed with fine wines, and more gold than he could spend in a lifetime? He glanced at the man walking at his side. People liked Richard Hodgkinson, because he was affable and good-hearted, but had his printing business made him wealthy, allowed him to buy whatever he fancied and not worry about the cost? No, they had not, and Newburne could not help but despise him for it.
‘Let me buy you another pie, Hodgkinson,’ he said, making a show of rummaging in his loaded purse for coins. He was aware of several rough types eyeing him speculatively, but he was not afraid of them. He was legal adviser to the infamous Ellis Crisp, and only a fool would risk annoying the man everyone called the Butcher of Smithfield. Cutpurses and robbers could look all they liked, but none would dare lift a finger against the Butcher’s right-hand man.
‘I have had enough to eat, thank you,’ replied Hodgkinson politely. ‘It was good of you to invite me to spend a few hours with you.’
Newburne inclined his head in a bow. Of course Hodgkinson appreciated his hospitality. Newburne was the ascending star in Smithfield, and Hodgkinson should be grateful that the solicitor had deigned to acknowledge him, and spoil him with little treats. Of course, Newburne would have preferred to be with his one true friend, a shy, retiring fellow by the name of Finch, but Finch was off playing his trumpet to some wealthy patron, and so was unavailable. Newburne had not wanted to be alone that afternoon — it was much more fun spending money when someone else was watching — so he had asked Hodgkinson to join him instead. It was a good day for a stroll — the first dry one they had had in weeks, and they were not the only ones taking advantage of it. The Smithfield meat market was packed, a lively, noisy chaos of shops, taverns, stocks and brothels.
‘My stomach hurts,’ Newburne said, not for the first time during the outing. ‘You said gingerbread would soothe it, but I feel worse.’
Hodgkinson looked sympathetic. ‘You drank a lot of wine earlier, and I thought the cake might soak up some of the sour humours. Perhaps you should take a purge.’
Newburne waved the advice aside; the printer did not know what he was talking about. ‘I shall have a bit of this cucumber instead. Cucumbers are said to be good for gripes in the belly, although I cannot abide the taste.’
‘They are unpleasant,’ agreed Hodgkinson. He pointed suddenly, and his voice dropped to a low, uneasy whisper. ‘There is the Butcher, out surveying his domain.’
Newburne glanced to where a man, hooded and cloaked as usual, prowled among the market stalls. Even Crisp’s walk was menacing, light and soft, like a hunter after prey, and people gave him a wide berth as he passed. He was surrounded by the louts who did his bidding, members of the powerful gang called the Hectors. They were another reason why no one tended to argue with the Butcher of Smithfield, and even Newburne was a little uneasy in their company, although he would never have admitted it to anyone else.
‘I am told he killed a man yesterday,’ he said conversationally to Hodgkinson. He smiled, despite the ache in his stomach. The Butcher knew how to keep people in line, and Newburne fully approved of his tactics. It was refreshing to work for someone who was not afraid to apply a firm hand when it was needed. ‘By that slaughterhouse over there.’
Hodgkinson swallowed uneasily. ‘I heard. Apparently, the fellow objected to the way he runs things. I suppose that explains why Crisp’s shop is so full of pies and sausages this morning.’
Newburne nodded, glancing across to where the emporium in question was curiously devoid of customers, although everywhere else was busy. He was never sure whether to believe the rumours that circulated regarding how Crisp disposed of his dead enemies. Most of Smithfield thought them to be true, though, which served to make the Butcher more feared than ever, and that was not a bad thing as far as Newburne was concerned. Frightened folk were easier to control than ones who were puffed up with a sense of their own immortality.
Hodgkinson shuddered, and began to walk in another direction, away from the Butcher and his entourage. ‘Look! Dancing monkeys! I have not seen those in years.’
Newburne took a bite of the cucumber as he stood in the little crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. He was beginning to feel distinctly unwell, and thought he might be sick. He swallowed the mouthful with difficulty, and started to take another. Suddenly, there was a searing pain in his innards, one that felt like claws tearing him apart from the inside. He groaned and dropped to his knees, arms clutching his middle. He could hear Hodgkinson saying something, but could not make out the words. Then he was on his back, in the filth of the street. People were looking away from the performing animals to stare at him, although no one made any attempt to help. Hodgkinson was shouting for someone to bring water, but all Newburne cared about was the terrible ache in his belly. He could not breathe, and his vision was darkening around the edges. And then everything went black, and the printer’s clamouring voice faded into silence.
Chapter 1
London, Late October 1663
A combination of chiming bells and hammering rain woke Thomas Chaloner that grey Sunday morning. At first, he did not know where he was, and he sat up with a jolt, automatically reaching for the dagger at his side. The realisation that he did not need it, that he was safe in his rooms at Fetter Lane, came just after the shock of discovering that his weapon was not where it had been these last four months, and it took a few moments to bring his instinctive alarm under control. He lay back on his bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, and forced himself to relax. He was at home, not working in enemy territory on the Spanish-Portuguese border, and the bells were calling the faithful to their weekly devotions, not warning of an imminent attack.
He pushed back the blanket and walked to the window. In the street below, Fetter Lane was much as it had been when he had left the city back in June. Carts still creaked across its manure-carpeted cobbles, impeded that morning by the rainwater that formed a fast-moving stream down one side, and the Golden Lion tavern still stood opposite, its sign swinging gently in the wind and its sleepy-eyed patrons just beginning to emerge from a night of dark talk and conspiracy. The recently installed Royalist government was uneasy about the seditious discussions it believed took place in the many coffee houses that were springing up all over London, but Chaloner thought half the country’s dissidents could be eradicated in one fell swoop if the Golden Lion was monitored — and probably half its criminals, too. He did not think he had ever encountered a place that was such a flagrant haven for felons and mischief-makers.
He almost jumped out of his skin when something brushed against his leg, and he reached for his knife a second time; but it was only the stray cat that had attached itself to him on his journey home from Lisbon. He assumed its affection was hunger-driven, until he spotted the remains of a rat near the hearth; the animal had evidently despaired of being fed and had procured its own breakfast. It rubbed his leg again, then jumped on to the window sill and began to wash itself.
Dawn had broken, and people were walking, riding or being driven to church. Chaloner supposed he had better join them, not because he had any burning desire for religion, but because he did not want to draw attention to himself with unorthodox behaviour. After a decade of Puritan rule, the newly reinstated bishops were eager to assert the authority of the traditional Church, and anyone not attending the Sunday services laid himself open to accusations of nonconformism. Like most spies, Chaloner tried to keep a low profile, and aimed to do all that was expected of him in the interests of maintaining anonymity.