‘Very well,’ said Smith, pushing several coins across the table, which Brome counted carefully before making an entry in a ledger. ‘Do you want me to sign anything before I go?’
‘Here, to say you have handed me the sum of five shillings,’ said Brome, pointing at the book.
‘You are wise to keep records, because they will protect you against allegations,’ said Smith darkly. ‘I knew L’Estrange during the wars, and he is a devil for thinking the worst of people. I heard in my coffee house yesterday that he has accused Muddiman of stealing his news.’
Brome regarded him uneasily. ‘But Muddiman does steal his news — he pre-empted us with a report from Tangier only last week. That is theft, just as you losing your bay mare is theft.’
‘It is not the same at all,’ said Smith dismissively. ‘A horse cannot be compared to an item of foreign gossip. I was sorry to hear about Newburne, by the way. You must be very upset.’
‘L’Estrange will miss him,’ was all Brome said in reply.
When Smith had gone, Brome turned to Chaloner with a smile, apologising for the delay and asking whether he had come to order a book, apply for a publishing license, or buy advertising space.
‘I have come to see Roger L’Estrange,’ replied Chaloner.
‘May I ask why?’ Brome shrugged sheepishly when Chaloner raised his eyebrows at the question. ‘I mean no disrespect, but it will be better for everyone if you tell me your business first. The last man I allowed in without an appointment transpired to be a phanatique, and the poor fellow was lucky to escape with one of his ears still attached.’
From the rabid tone of the newsbooks and what he had witnessed outside the Rainbow Coffee House, Chaloner was not surprised to learn L’Estrange was in the habit of turning violent when confronted with people of whom he disapproved. ‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to see him regarding the release of information from Portugal. My name is Thomas Heyden.’
Brome brightened. ‘Original news? Excellent! That will put him in a good mood, and it is kind of the Lord Chancellor to think of us. Are you one of his secretaries? A diplomatic emissary, perhaps?’
‘Just a clerk.’
Brome regarded him astutely. ‘He does not send minions to foreign countries on his behalf, so you must be either relatively senior or trusted. But no matter; I can see from your expression that you would rather not discuss it. We are grateful for any accurate information, regardless of its origin.’
Chaloner changed the subject. Brome’s wits were sharp, and he did not want the man guessing he was a spy. ‘You said L’Estrange was visited by a phanatique. Do many pay him court, then?’
The bookseller grinned, a little conspiratorially. ‘They do, according to him. However, you must be aware that a phanatique is anyone even remotely sympathetic to Puritans, Roundheads or regicides. I am one at the moment, because I said it is time Cromwell’s skull was removed from the pole outside Westminster Hall. However, my suggestion has more to do with its nasty habit of blowing down in the wind than with any respect I might have had for its owner. The thing almost brained my wife last week, and most Londoners consider it something of a hazard.’
Chaloner hoped Thurloe did not venture that way during storms, because he and Cromwell had been friends. ‘Is it true that a licence is needed to print any book or pamphlet in London now?’ he asked, wanting to learn more about L’Estrange’s official business before he met the man.
‘In the country,’ corrected Brome. ‘And not only is it illegal to manufacture a text without a licence from the Surveyor of the Press — L’Estrange — but it is against the law to sell them, too.’
‘I understand there are six hundred booksellers in the City alone,’ said Chaloner artlessly. ‘How does he regulate them all?’
‘There are only fifty now,’ said Brome. He looked away, and Chaloner was under the impression that he thought it a pity. ‘He hires men to visit the bookshops and ensure they only hawk legitimate tomes. Of course, these rules only apply to the printed word. He cannot control manuscripts — handwritten texts — such as the newsletters dictated by Muddiman to his army of scribes.’
‘Do you read any newsletters?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Brome, somewhat cagily. ‘That would be disloyal, because they are in direct competition with the official government newsbooks.’
Casually, Chaloner leaned forward and tweaked a sheet of paper from under the ledger, stepping away smartly when Brome tried to snatch it back. Like all newsletters, it was addressed to a specific recipient — something a scribe could do, but that was impractical for a printing press — and the author’s name and address were carried banner-like across the top of the first page. In this case, the writer was Henry Muddiman, and his correspondent was Samuel Pepys.
Brome’s face was scarlet with mortification. ‘That is … that is not mine.’
‘Pepys is a clerk at the navy office,’ said Chaloner, watching him intently. ‘I met him once.’
Brome was appalled. ‘You know Pepys? Lord!’
Chaloner was amused when he guessed the reason for Brome’s agitation. ‘Pepys does not subscribe to Muddiman’s newsletter, does he? You just borrowed his name, because he is respectable but relatively insignificant, and no one at Muddiman’s office would question his desire to purchase such a thing. Meanwhile, Muddiman thinks his missives are being read by a navy clerk, blissfully unaware that it actually goes straight into the hands of his greatest rival.’
Brome coloured even further. ‘It sounds sordid when you put it like that. Muddiman sends out a hundred and fifty newsletters each week, so what difference can one more make? Besides, how else are we to monitor the competition?’
Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. ‘This was not your idea, was it? And nor did you elect to pick on Pepys. Whose was it? L’Estrange’s?’
Brome put his hands over his face and scrubbed his flushed cheeks. ‘He will skin me alive if he finds out I was careless enough to leave that lying around for the Lord Chancellor’s man to see. I told him it was stupid to use Pepys, but he would not listen. What if Muddiman meets Pepys, and asks how he likes the newsletters? It was only ever a matter of time before we were found out.’
‘So why take the risk?’
‘Because we need to know what is in them. Muddiman’s sources are invariably better than ours.’
Chaloner was bemused. ‘How so? The newsbooks’ source of information is the government — and the government knows everything, because it receives a constant stream of information from its spies.’ He knew this for a fact, because he was one of those conduits.
Brome swallowed. ‘I am afraid you have walked into a war here, Heyden. A news war. You are right: we should have the stories first, but the reality is quite different. Muddiman has contacts and methods — God alone knows who and what they are — which mean he nearly always pre-empts us.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘He was the newsbook editor himself until a few weeks ago. That means he knows the government clerks who provide this information. Perhaps he bribes them to speak to him first. It would be a risky thing to do on the clerks’ part, because if Spymaster Williamson finds out I doubt he will be very forgiving. But it is not impossible.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘It is not impossible. However, Williamson’s spies maintain the clerks are innocent. They watch them all the time, and have observed nothing untoward. So, we do not know how Muddiman always manages to get the news first.’
‘What was Newburne’s role in all this?’
Brome was startled by the question. ‘I suppose you heard Smith consoling me about his death, did you? Poor Newburne! His remit was to spy on the booksellers and keep an eye on Muddiman’s dealings. Why do you ask about him particularly?’